Trinity Blood: Habeas Everto
by James Austin Valiant
Summary: When Caterina invites the leader of an alienated religious order back into the Vatican's good graces, he brings with him a dark side that will force the entire AX to act swiftly in a life or death situation for everyone involved.
1. Affera del Agrume

__**Trinity Blood: Habeas Everto  
****By: James Austin Valiant**

The bright, globular shapes disappeared in a frenzy of motion. Pieces of peel and pith were being discarded in every direction; as the soft flesh was devoured. The segments of tangerine were barely being chewed between Father Leon Garcia de Asturias' teeth. No way was the skinny, clumsy Father Nightroad going to beat him in this eating contest. No chance of it.

"Time."

Father Leon swallowed the last bit of succulent citrus and stuck his tongue out at Abel.

"The winner of this impromptu tangerine eating contest, in accordance with parameters outlined by myself before its start, is Father Abel Nightroad!"

The defeated priest's mouth dropped open. "That can't be right! I'm sure I beat him!"

"Negative, Father Leon."

"Oh, you musta made a mista-"

"I make no error. You have consumed merely 12 tangerines in the allotted 7 and a half minutes, while Father Nightroad has consumed 18 tangerines in the same allotted period."

"Face it, Mr. Manly Man," mocked the silver-haired, slender Abel Nightroad, "you should stick with the books and leave the manly stuff to guys like me."

Father Leon stomped the ground in anger. "You've got to be kidding me! You two were in cahoots, it was fixed, and those tangerines were rigged! I got a peel stuck in my teeth and that slowed me down! I demand an impartial judge!"

"I am impartial. As a machine, I possess no loyalty to either competitor and therefore, am the most qualified entity to judge said competition." Father Tres monotone explanation of the obvious did little to soothe Father Leon's frustration with Father Nightroad's victory, as he stormed off.

"Congratulations on your victory, Father Nightroad."

Abel ascended an imaginary award podium, clutching the empty tangerine sack as if it were a golden statuette. "Oh, this is such an honor! There are so many people to thank…I'd like to thank the Vatican, providers of my measly priest's salary, oh, and my ever present hunger for tangerines…sweet, holy tangerines, proof of God's eternal love…"

"FATHER NIGHTROAD!"

The happy hallucination of an awards show was shaken by the familiar cry. Abel sheepishly abandoned his make-believe podium and grinned widely at the female form in front of him. The white and blue habit she wore was nearly immaculate, even if the pose she struck was less than saintly. Her fists were firmly upon her hips, and a frown was etched onto her delicate lips.

"What...are…you…doing?" Sister Esther managed to get out through her ever present sense of frustration.

The silver-haired priest scratched the back of his head. "Well, you see, Father Leon had this bag of tangerines and offered to share them, and of course, you know, get two hungry priests together and…"

"I have been looking for you for over an hour! We had an appointment at noon and you're out here, pigging out on oranges?"

"Well…tangerines, actually…"

She turned to the stoic expression of Father Tres. "And where were you for all this?"

Tres did not react as Abel had. "I was not made aware of this meeting, Sister Esther."

"Come on, then!" Her slender hand grasped Father Nightroad's larger one, and even though she was angry, her heart still skipped a beat. "We have to get to Caterina's office before someone else shows up with a bag of citrus fruit!


	2. Devozioni e Clemenza

**Devozioni e Clemenza  
By: James Austin Valiant**

_Deus in nostrum pectus pectoris  
Vultus ad sede vacante  
Vindico nos, verus Petros  
Sanctus Romanorum Papem_

The sound of the monks' chanting resonated off the cold limestone. A creeping draft swept through the age old chapel, where walls that had weathered wars and Dark Ages stood; it had seen the reign of exactly one-hundred and twenty men occupying the Throne of Peter.

The stone itself was of no special integrity; the brothers attributed the longevity of their residency and chapel to the divine presence in their order, their works and their souls. Though it was plain in appearance and rather unpleasing to the aesthetic eye, the two buildings attracted to the order those who sought its true purpose: prayer and penance.

To even be admitted to the order was an arduous process. Young men were subjected to isolation for six months at the bare minimum, confined to a small concrete cell with a bed, desk, Bible and crucifix. The candidate was barred from speaking or communicating with anyone but the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Many young men abandoned the order midway through this stage, those who held on found themselves moved to the next stage.

Backbreaking labor within the residency and chapel humbled and broke even the strongest of men. They were not only forced to clean almost to the point of godliness, but the true nature of this exercise was made apparent as the work repeated itself. The applicant, as he scrubbed, saw the spots and stains not on the carpets and floors, but on his very soul. If the applicant made it through this rigorous physical exhaustion, he was admitted to the secret ceremony and allowed to join the order.

Brother Ian Desmond relished in the morning chants of his brothers. Their unity inspired the adoration and strength he had felt for the Lord for his whole life. Even though Brother Desmond was an outsider, an Albionian in predominantly Roman order, he was admired by his brothers. They looked to him as a representative of all they stood for, the true embodiment of the order. It was with this recognition that he had been elected to go to Rome, to seek reconciliation with Holy See after centuries of dispute.

The proud, young man ascended the pulpit, dressed in his plain brown habit, a simple cincture secured at the waist. Looking into the eyes of his constituents, those in their early twenties to those in their late eighties, he saw the glimmer of hope and promise. He, Brother Desmond, would be the one to lead the Order of Saint Sebastian back to full communion with the Vatican.

"Brothers," To them, his voice sounded like thousands of seraphim choiring, "today I embark upon the most sacred and holy journey. For at last, we have secured an audience with the man who claims the Throne of Peter, to finally bring an end to centuries of disagreement and neglect. Think, dear brothers, of what the Order of Saint Sebastian will be able to do with Vatican support. We, who humbly treat all those in need, be they human or vampire, poor or rich, laymen or clergy.

"Not only do we treat their wounds, give them rest and shelter, but we empower them with our sacred teachings, the wisdom of the Lord and the true nature of Scripture, as bequeathed to us by our holy founder, Saint Sebastian. Be forewarned, brothers, that, on this day forward, our messages shall spread worldwide, and our Order shall find resurgence and renewal!"

The men, seated in hickory pews in front of him, nodded with approval. How he wished they would clap, acknowledge his brilliance and gift of articulation. Brother Desmond loved the spotlight they shone on him, but he wanted more than that. He wanted to be a leader, to be congratulated and adored. As far as he was concerned, by the end of Vatican sojourn, the men in that chapel would be calling themselves the Order of Saint Ian Desmond!


	3. Gioventu Perduta

**Gioventu Perduta  
By: James Austin Valiant**

The heavy oak doors of her office remained untouched, as they had for the past three hours. She sighed. Even though she had known Abel Nightroad for practically her whole life, she could never depend on him to be on time for anything. She couldn't hold this against him, as much as she wanted to; he was a valuable member of her AX team, and one of her most trustworthy friends. At one point, she had thought she might even be in love with the mysterious priest, but she now knew better than that. Her heart was held by another, but Abel was still one of the best men she had ever met.

Cardinal Caterina Sforza was not having an easy time. Though she had managed to open a channel of peace between the Empire and the Vatican, there were still human factions within the Vatican-influenced territories that believed this the wrong course of action. Many of these people were married to ideas of demons and hauntings, that agents of the Devil lay present in the world, ready to strike at any time. Sometimes, Caterina believed more trouble came from within than from without.

Inconsistent babble snatched her from her thoughts.

"We are ever so sorry, Miss Caterina, but there were extenuating circumstances keeping up from this appointment with you…" the silver-haired priest apologized.

"That is not true!" Sister Esther silenced her companion. "Your Eminence, please forgive us. I was waiting for Father Nightroad before coming to see you, and found him with Father Tres an-"

Caterina put her hand up. "That'll do, Sister Esther. The important thing is that you are both here. I have a mission for the two of you that is of a very sensitive nature."

Esther frowned. Cardinal Sforza seemed very solemn about this mission, and the young nun recalled that not even Tres had known about their appointment that afternoon. Esther glanced at Abel; usually, his face was an easy read to the nature of their assignments.

Father Nightroad's eyes were focused on Caterina and his mouth showed hints of a faint, concentrated scowl. The nun nodded to herself; the cardinal was going to send them off to contend with an internal matter.

"Are either of you familiar with the Order of Saint Sebastian?"

"Yes," Esther spoke quietly, "Bishop Laura used to speak of them often. She said they were a despicable group of charlatans, who pretended to cure people with charismatic showmanship, and who disagreed with the Church on the election of His Holiness and Empire-Vatican peace."

Abel smiled to himself. His young partner certainly was quite knowledgeable.

"That is accurate, Sister Esther," noted Caterina, "The Order did indeed publicly disagree with commonly accepted teachings of the Church, and called for there to be a Crusade to bring about the downfall of the Empire. Allies of the Empire got wind of this, however, and began to attack the Order, gradually reducing their power and influence, until only a handful of members remained.

"Recently, a Brother Ian Desmond of the Order has been in contact with a Vatican envoy: they wish to reconcile their differences with us. I am entrusting to you, Father Nightroad and you, Sister Esther, the safety and transport of Brother Desmond to the Vatican."

The two AX members stood silent.

"That's…it?" Abel said in disbelief. "You want us...to chaperone a monk?"

"Yes, Father Nightroad."

"Of all the lunatic missions I've been sent on…this one sounds like the best! We'll take it! Oh this is tremendous, no danger, no risk of-" Abel continued.

"ENOUGH." Caterina silenced the ecstatic priest with a single, dark gray gaze. "Brother Desmond is in a small village north of Rome. You have your orders."

"Yes, Lady Caterina!" Abel exclaimed, picking up the slender file from Caterina's desk.

"We are happy to help in any way possible." Esther said cheerfully, as she led the way out of Caterina's office.

The cardinal smiled. There was something about those two and the way they interacted with each other…


	4. Affaire Infernale

**Affaire Infernale  
By: James Austin Valiant**

Esther and Abel had ridden in silence for almost an hour and a half. Maybe it was the carriage ride the Vatican had graciously provided for Brother Desmond's comfort, or the fact that silence just seemed more relaxing than making conversation. Even with the occasional snore emanating from the napping Father Nightroad, Sister Esther couldn't help but gaze at him.

_The Father is so different in private than around others_, she thought to herself. _He seems to make an effort to be more boisterous and clumsy is public. But this side, when we are just one on one, he seems so peaceful and intelligent. I wish…I wish I knew why he __feels__ the need to be such a different person than who he truly is. _

Abel snored again, rousing Esther from her thoughts. She smiled softly, and reached over to brush some hair off his face.

The priest awoke to find his hair in the young nun's hand. "Miss Esther?"

"Uhh…Father…I'm sorry, I..uh," She stood frozen.

"Esther…did you get a chance to look at the file?" He smiled.

Esther finished brushing the silvery lock to one side. "I skimmed it a bit, it's very elaborate."

"Ahh, but Miss Esther," he said, snatching the file from by her side, "the story of the Order of Saint Sebastian is indeed a very elaborate one.

"According to the case file, the Order was formed a little over five hundred years ago, by a man named Sebastian Ortalanni. Initially, due to the strict requirements for entry, the Order stayed very small. However, after they became well-publicized for their charismatic healings, the numbers began to swell, as well as the size of donations. The Order grew to immense power, able to control military storehouses, food supply, even the Vatican. At one point, in a hundred year span, four of the five Popes elected started as members of the Order."

Esther shook her head. "That's terrible. And they still speak out against the Church?"

Abel flipped a few pages ahead in the report. "Yes, that is true. Even now, they believe that the Papacy is in a state of _sede vacante_."

Esther stared at the priest blankly.

"Oh, of course!" He chuckled. "_Sede vacante_ is the circumstance where one Pope has passed away but a new one has yet to be elected. However, the Order believes it has been seventy-five years since the last legitimate reigning Pope. And that's only one of the many issues that the Order and Vatican find conflict on."

"I don't understand, Father. If they are in such disagreement, why bother trying to talk with them?"

"It's important to be united. Even if we have many differences, there is still so much more we have in common. The stuff we disagree on…well, it can't be ignored forever, but maybe it can be negotiated on while we work towards a common good. Don't you agree?" Abel finished, pushing his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

"Father Nightroad, you're surprisingly diplomatic…" Esther trailed off, in a dream like trance. She envisioned herself at the priest's side, helping him to form new alliances, boldly going where no clergyman had gone before…

"Ah!" Once again, he snapped her out of her thoughts. "We're here! Come now, Miss Esther, we don't want to keep Brother Desmond waiting!"

Father Nightroad swept himself to his feet and helped Esther to climb out of the carriage. His hand on hers seemed to once again make the world melt away, but she shook herself out of it. They had a mission to tend to, and a rogue monk to find and escort back to Rome.


	5. Benvenuto Cattivo

**Benvenuto Cattivo**  
**By: James Austin Valiant**

"Greetings, sir," Abel called cheerfully to the man standing before them. "I am Father Abel Nightroad, and this is Sister Esther Blanchett." Esther nodded her head in greeting.

"We are here on a mission from Her Eminence, Lady Caterina Sforza, to escort Brother Ian Desmond to the Vatican, and ensure he has a safe and uneventful journey." Finished the priest.

Several seconds of silence followed. The man at the seven foot gate glared, causing both Abel and Esther noticeable discomfort. He shifted from one foot to the other, giving off a feeling of both exhaustion and annoyance. Dressed from head to foot in a brown, rough-looking robe, he was definitely a member of the Order.

"You are both dressed in a rather ostentatious manner to be representatives of Holy Mother Church. Not only that, but you are extroverted to the point of complete personal disgrace." The grumpiness in his glare increased to full out disgust, completely evident in his eyes.

_Not a welcoming committee in the least..._Esther thought.

"Can you take us to him, please?" She vocalized, trying to hide her disgust at his insinuations.

The brother's long glare did not let up. He was scrutinizing them, looking for something to condemn their eternal fates.

"You...you two are together..." He accused flatly.

"Of course we are together, that is how the Vatican assigned us to this particular mission." stated Esther, matter-of-factly.

"But I mean, you are...together." The brother put more emphasis on the word, trying to make his insinuation sink on the unsuspecting pair.

As it dawned on them, the priest coughed with surprise. The young nun remained suspiciously silent.

"Excuse me-" Began Abel, but the sight of Esther immediately cut him off.

She was at a height of anger the priest had never seen her at. Her tiny pale fists were clenched so tightly that her knuckles had turned white, and her relaxed body language was tight and rigid. Esther's face, which pleased Abel in almost every expression it displayed, was twisted into a scowling, pink-toned mess he knew needed to be dealt with.

"Excuse us," Abel started again, "we need a moment." He took Esther by the arm and led her a short distance away from the offending brother.

"What is wrong, Miss Esther?"

She huffed angrily, keeping her voice to a harsh whisper. "That man is doing this intentionally! He's trying to get us upset, he's trying to make us angry, all because he wants us to embarrass ourselves in front of Brother Desmond and the Order! He is going to ruin everything!"

"Esther," Abel pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, "not every member of the Order is happy about the likely reconciliation with the Vatican. It's just not possible for them all to agree, and we can't cater to every whim. Some of them are going to act like this; all we have to do is get Brother Desmond and escort him out of here. Okay?"

Abel smiled. Esther couldn't help but notice his caring gaze, so calming, so familiar. She didn't have Father Nightroad's experience in these sorts of matters, and her young mind processed everything very differently to his. Esther took a deep breath, followed by an even longer exhale. She could prove herself capable diplomatically.

"Let's do this."

The red head marched back up to the offending brother and did her best to keep her tone flat and unemotional.

"I am Sister Esther Blanchett, and this is Father Abel Nightroad. We are here to retrieve Brother Ian Desmond for his meeting with the Vatican. Could you please show us to him? I'm sure the good Brother does not like to be kept waiting."

Abel was taken aback. She was so prim and professional. Not only that, but she had put the thought in the brother's head that his superior would be angered by his stalling tactics. _Who taught her how to do that? The Professor? Caterina?_

"My name is Brother Hidalgo." spoke the man they had come to revile, "I shall bring you to Brother Desmond. Come with me."

With the grin of a proud mentor, Father Nightroad followed his young companion and Brother Hidalgo through the gate.


	6. Incontro Eccentrico

**Incontro Eccentrico**  
**By: James Austin Valiant**

Abel still wasn't sure to make of Brother Desmond. As rude and inhospitable as Brother Hidalgo has been, Brother Desmond was the complete opposite. He was welcoming and warm, easy to engage in conversation and quick to offer them tea. While Abel would have very much enjoyed sitting down to an aromatic and sugary brew, it was better for all involved for them to get Desmond to the Vatican as quickly as possible.

The sociable monk carried just a small satchel as luggage, dismissed Brother Hidalgo of his duty, and led the priest and nun through a different set of hallways. Esther was somewhat hesitant; if Hidalgo had been so nasty at first, perhaps Desmond was leading them into a trap? It would be unwise to take hostages, especially considering the rescue party that would show up to find their missing comrades, never mind what Father would do…

..._or become..._Esther shook her head, causing her red tresses to whip about. She was still uncomfortable thinking about Father Abel in his other form. _I'm not scared of him, but I can't shake the feeling...it's just…I still feel like there's so much he hasn't told me, like he's more worried than I am sometimes._

The redhead's thoughts were cut short when they reached the outside. A massive garden sprawled out before them. There were blossoms in every direction; the layout out of the land seemed to be built around the plants. Sister Esther could not believe her eyes; even though the Vatican had many different types of gardens, she had never seen one quite like this.

"These," began Brother Desmond, his voice ringing clear, "are the Formal Gardens. When the Order was at its peak, these gardens were planted to not only represent the far reaching influences of the Order, but also the majesty and glory of the Lord.

"You'll notice that many of the species of flower here are not ones found commonly; for instance, on the left here, scattered is a small collection of lady slipper. To the far back corner is a plant native to Albion but permanently extinct there - it's known as Wynberg's conebush. Many of these plants have long disappeared from their natural habitats, but due to our intervention, have been saved from complete annihilation."

_He's always on the pulpit! _Abel smiled to himself. "Brother Desmond, while it is a delight to see your wonderful flowers, we must be on our way."

"Certainly, Father Nightroad." The monk lead the way through a gate, in the general direction of the carriage, with Abel and Esther close behind him.

Esther nudged Abel. "Have you ever seen such an exquisite garden, Father? I don't think we have anything at the Vatican that matches that."

"Of course we do!" Abel lied, "We just don't have a fine orator like Brother Desmond to hype them up."

"You lend me far too much credence, Father, I merely describe what I see," Desmond shot back, sporting a wry smile as he climbed into the carriage.

Esther began to climb into the carriage herself, but before she could pull herself up, Abel extended his hand.

"Please, Miss Esther, allow me."

She grasped his hand tightly as she pulled herself up. Father Nightroad's chivalrous manner didn't always appear, but then, they weren't always in circumstances to allow it. Esther adored when the opportunity did come around, even it was just simple gestures like this.

"So have you two been this close since you met in Istavan?"

Abel was taken aback as he made himself comfortable sitting next to the monk.

"I beg your pardon?" He shot Esther a look as if to say _Did you say something to him?_

_Of course not! _She returned an insistent innocent gaze.

"How do you know about our meeting in Istavan, Brother Desmond?" Esther was slightly annoyed that the monk seemed to know things he shouldn't.

"So I presume you both are under the personal direction of Cardinal Sforza? Or do you report to His Holiness himself?" Desmond ignored Esther's query.

"Generally, we take our orders from the Cardinal. Specifically for this matter, we are reporting to both Her Eminence and His Holiness." Abel explained.

Esther frowned. Why had Brother Desmond ignored her? She had a legitimate question!

"I couldn't help but notice you are carrying a weapon, Father. Were you expecting a struggle to remove me from the residency?" Chuckled Desmond.

"Of course not. It's standard issue. When we report on these missions, there can sometimes be some…" Abel searched his mind for the most delicate phrase, "...unforeseen circumstances."

"So, you must see a lot of action, then?" The monk's eyes seemed to dance with every question he asked.

"Somewhat. It's different based on different cases."

"Excuse me!" Esther spoke up. "How did you know that Father Nightroad and I met in Istavan? That's nothing that was told to you by either of us."

Desmond shrugged. "Sometimes, you just make a lucky guess."

The redhead nun's thoughts turned suspicious. _There's something not right about this guy. He's way too proud, knows things he shouldn't and definitely is way too interested in that gun Father Nightroad is carrying. He was nice at first, but now he's making my stomach turn. Thankfully, all we have to do is get him to the Vatican and we won't have to deal with him any longer._

"Surely, you must see combat, Father. You may not like it, but I can see in your eyes. Yes, your eyes carry your battle scars." Desmond paused. "It's almost as if you've been suffering centuries of sadness."

"Well, my job does make it seem that way sometimes," Abel could taste the uneasiness growing between himself and the monk. Maybe a story would pacify him, "There was a time, while I was on a mission near the southern border of Germanicus, and was put into the middle of a dispute between the well-armed local militia and some renegade expansionists who were looking to place that particular portion of the country under their control. Needless to say, I had to intervene and things got a little messy."

"Really?" Desmond was hanging on Abel's every word, his face like that out an eager child.

_Father Nightroad has never been to Germanicus to- Oh, I get it! He's trying to make him happy with a made-up story so he'll leave him alone. _Esther smoothed out her habit. _Father Abel Nightroad, sometimes you are more clever than I give you credit for. _


	7. Richieste Vaticano

**Richieste Vaticano  
** **By: James Austin Valiant**

"We're here."

The trio of Brother Ian Desmond, Father Abel Nightroad and Sister Esther Blanchett had left their carriage once they had reached the outskirts of the Vatican. Traveling by foot was the preferable way to gain access to the city.

Compared to other journeys that the AX members had made on foot, the simple trip into Vatican City was a leisurely stroll. Somehow bringing this strange brother and his Order back into alliance with the Vatican seemed of more importance than many of their usual missions of arrests and battles. Abel and Esther both sighed a relieved breath.

Abel glanced over at Esther, trying not to draw attention to himself so he could see her longer. The expression on her face was momentarily cleansed of worry and she looked up at the sky more often than the cobblestones beneath her feet.

He still wondered just why she had been playing with his hair. Playing with it, or simply moving it? Whichever it was, he was happy that she payed any attention to his crazy performance at all. Although he knew it was better to act a fool to the AX then to show his true a brooding self day by day, he always felt that pull of regret in his heart for not telling her the truth at every moment of opportunity he had. Still, he couldn't, not yet.

Brother Desmond was captivated by the scene around him. The sight of the Vatican was a shimmering jewel unlike any other Desmond had ever seen. The massive statues established grandeur and poise; their poses and expressions came from ages past and spoke of a simpler time of faith. Centuries old buildings made a stately impression. Their structure told of a powerful institution, one that ruled with physical might and a psychological edge. This was the Roman Catholic Church that Desmond had signed on to be a part of.

None could compare to the magnificence that he beheld in front of him - St. Peter's Basilica. Its magnificent arches, its countless windows and its dome that seemed to reach to Heaven. How he had so longed to see it with his own eyes, and now that it stood before him...he was without words.

_The majesty of it all! Why, I can barely believe I am actually here! _Desmond's eyes darted from building to building, his visual center experiencing an overload. _This architecture is exactly what I envision for the Order - when I lay my demands on the table, I'll have it all...all the cathedrals, churches, basilicas, learning centers, convents, rectories...whatever I want, I will have! _

Absorbed in his own thoughts, Desmond was completely unaware that his traveling company was following as far behind him as they could. Esther's uneasiness had only grown during the tenure of the trip. She had gone from considering the monk kindly and hospitable to creepy and suspicious. What's more, he had completely ignored her to talk about war and gore with Father Nightroad.

"Something's not right about him," she whispered to her priestly companion.

"I know what you mean," Abel agreed. He'd never before met someone who had so eagerly wanted particular descriptions of such unpleasant realities of waging battle. Some of the things the monk wanted to know were things the slender priest wanted to forget. Still, Desmond was almost to Caterina, and then, their mission would be done.

"Brother! Her Eminence's office is right this way!" Sister Esther called out to the monk, who was still astonished by his surroundings.

"Please lead the way. I'm right behind you." Brother Desmond turned his attention back to his companions, who led him through a entranceway to the left of the grand building. Desmond scratched his beard, a nervous habit. It was time to draw battle lines.

A series of long and winding halls, broken up periodically by open areas featuring art and sculpture, carried them closer and closer to their destination. Desmond longed to stop and gaze upon the art, but the lead of his companions prevented him from doing so.

The priest and nun stopped at a pair of massive, wooden doors. Upon knocking, Desmond heard a strong voice asking them to enter, and the door shifted open. Father Nightroad and Sister Esther entered first, with Brother Desmond in tow.

"Your Eminence, allow me to introduce to you Brother Ian Desmond, of the Order of Saint Sebastian." explained the silver haired priest.

"Greetings, Your Eminence," followed Desmond, bowing his head slightly.

"And to you, good Brother," began Caterina, "I am Cardinal Caterina Sforza, Duchess of Milan and head of the Ministry of Holy Affairs. I would like to extend our sincere gratitude for you and your Order agreeing to this meeting."

Desmond smiled. "But of course, Your Eminence, the Order extends gratitude towards you and His Holiness for being the first Church leaders in a very long time to take the time to make company with us. It has been a long road to get here."

"Indeed, it has." Caterina turned to her agents. "You two are relieved. Thank you for your help, and for escorting Brother Desmond here."

"You are welcome, Lady Caterina," Abel responded.

"It was our pleasure. Come on, Father, I'll make us some tea." Esther smiled at Caterina and left the office.

"Tea? And perhaps...sandwiches!" The priest quickly followed the redhead nun, shutting the door behind him.

"Your clergy are remarkable, if you don't mind me saying," commented Desmond.

"Of course not, Brother. I am proud of each and every one of them," Caterina nodded in agreement, "but let's commence dialogue relating to reconciling the Order of Saint Sebastian with the Church proper."

"Indeed, but shouldn't His Holiness be present as well?"

"I'd like to fully understand what exactly the Order wishes to gain from coming back into communion with us first."

Desmond grinned. This was exactly what he'd been waiting for.

"We'd like funding mainly, to continue our healing work, and to be able to build better facilities for ourselves. Not only that, but we'd like recognition as the forefront Order of the Vatican, with a headquarters cathedral here. We would also like certain members of our Order elevated to the rank of Bishop so that we may consecrate our own priests, and we would like governing power extended to include a say in the College of Cardinals."

Caterina met Desmond's stare. "You want...you want me to convince the Pope that all these requests are necessary? You and I know they are not."

"How are they not?" His grin turned cold.

"Consecration of bishops? Building of a new cathedral? And if you're implying what I believe you to be implying, you are asking for one of your members to be elevated straight from the monastic life to the cardinalate. That's too much."

"Too much, is it?" Desmond's gaze turned to ice, his smile disappearing. "What is too much, Your Eminence, is ignoring a true asset to the Church's continued existence. This one organization that could insure its prevalence and even its dominance. Yet, even though the Order of Saint Sebastian offers you all these things, you refuse to support her. But you continue to maintain a conflicted leadership in the College of Cardinals and support a weak Papacy. That...child is barely qualified to lead Holy Mother Church!"

"Enough!" Caterina stopped the monk's rant.

"What's the matter, Caterina? Are you feeling weak, perhaps?" Desmond's grin returned, and he left his seat, leaning over the Cardinal's desk and gripping the edge. "Are your joints not up to par today?"

"ENOUGH!" Caterina stopped the monk again. "Please do not address me so informally, Brother Desmond. You may leave now. We will reconvene tomorrow afternoon, after I have time to address your requests with the Pope. Father Tres is waiting outside to show you to your room."

The monk backed away, and bowed slightly. "Thank you, Your Eminence. I look forward to our meeting tomorrow." He turned on his heel and left the room.

Caterina sighed, rubbing her forehead. This was not going to be easy in the least, but she never should have expected it to be. Perhaps a cup of Sister Kate's herbal teas was in order. She rose from her chair and started for the door.

Had Caterina glanced where Brother Desmond had been gripping her desk, she would have seen the deep grooves his fingers has left on her solid oak desk. Each ridge retained the exact pattern of Desmond's fingerprints. His grip on the Vatican was beginning, and he wasn't soon to let up.


	8. Pontefice Debole

**Pontefice Debole  
****By: James Austin Valiant**

The young pontiff picked at his dinner, occasionally eyeing in Monsignor Vittorio Vincenzo Vicci's direction. Vicci was the Pope's personal assistant, who woke him every morning and helped him to bed each evening. There were jokes among the Vatican court, some described Vicci's position as the "Pope's Butler, but this was mostly out of jealousy. Many felt that the young Bishop of Rome was highly impressionable, and that a man of Vicci's position held a high degree of influence.

Monsignor Vicci knew their perceptions to be quite false. Even though he was weak in voice and stature, Pope Alessandro XVIII did hold fast to his positions and opinions. It was only in expressing them that he ran into trouble. There had been objection to his decree that reinstated mandatory abstinence on Friday, but Alessandro held firm. Vicci remembered the Pope's words verbatim, if shaky, repeating that there was shame in not observing a holy pledge. It was the Lord who had fed the people using merely loaves and fish; why shouldn't His modern day disciples do the same, if but one day a week?

The Pope's older half-brother, Cardinal Francesco de Medici, was also present for dinner. Everyone in the Vatican thought Francesco resented the fact that his brother had been elected Pope instead of him. They also assumed correctly. Francesco had firmly believed the right to the Throne of Peter was in his hands, and the conclave of cardinal electors had stolen it away from him because he was illegitimate. Still, he occupied a relatively high seat of power and had tremendous sway over his brother.

Vicci took another forkful of the flaky whitefish to his mouth. He had always enjoyed fish, and was relieved that the observation stayed in place.

"The fish is really quite good tonight, Your Holiness," The monsignor spoke to the shy pontiff.

"Yes...it is. I've always liked it…" The young Bishop of Rome's words trailed off. "Do you like it, brother? Did I make the right decision about fish on Friday?"

"Of course," Francesco's voice boomed next to the Pope's meek one, "fish is never a bad choice. There is much written about fish in the Scripture, it would be a shame to not have it mandatory."

"Oh, indeed, without a doubt…" Alessandro sounded unsure, picking the fish with his fork.

Caterina burst through the doors of the papal apartment, with a collection of papers in one hand and a mildly enraged look in her eyes. She took note of her brother's alarmed reaction to her sudden intrusion and turned her lips up softly.

"Sister!" Francesco's voice rose sharply, and his stare turned hard, "What is the meaning of this!"

"I apologize, Your Holiness, " She liked to keep their interactions formal in front of other clergy, "I did not mean to interrupt your dinner. I need to speak to you in private, in regards to Brother Desmond."

Francesco became even angrier, and turned back to his brother. "Have you gone mad? What is the purpose of inviting that slime into an audience with the Holy See?" Cardinal de Medici was fuming, but then, when wasn't he? "And to have him here, here, in this holiest of holy places, housed within our own walls, and without consulting me first? Where has your head gone, Your Holiness? Are you content to cater to that pack of deviant wolves?"

"I...I don't know…" The Pope disappeared under the Cardinal's overbearing demeanor.

"That's enough, brother! I need to speak to His Holiness in private," Caterina spoke sharply, but controlled the volume of her voice. She didn't want to rattle her little brother any further.

"Of course! Have your private audience!" Cardinal Francesco slammed his fork down and stormed out of the room, Monsignor Vicci following close behind.

The Pope placed his fork down and stood up. He walked back to his office, and Caterina followed. He seemed more distant than usual, and the female cardinal was more than a little concerned. Surely, he was not sick again?

"Is he here?" Alessandro sat down.

"Of course he is here, I sent Father Nightroad and Sister Blanchett to collect him. They made sure of the safety and comfort of his travel."

"So if he is here safely, then why are you upset?" Came Alessandro's second question.

"Because, Alec, because the requests, nay demands, he put forth are ludicrous!" His sister answered angrily.

"Please, sister," He couldn't help but cower, "please calm down and tell me what happened."

"Very well," Caterina swallowed her feelings, and began to recount what had happened that afternoon, "Father Nightroad and Sister Blanchett brought Brother Ian Desmond to my office around three forty-five this afternoon and…"

Pope Alessandro listened intently to his sister's report. So many demands from the side of the Order of Saint Sebastian. And then came the part of the conversations where Desmond had personally attacked his Pontificate. He tasted the words of disgust, swirled them around in his mouth and bitterly swallowed their meaning.

His mind drifted. Here, in his office, was one of the most magnificent seats of power in the entire world. Possibly comparable only to the Empress Augusta Vradica's position. It scared Alessandro, but most times it just left him in awe; the majesty and importance of his decisions that came down to him alone. It was his duty to hold this place, and to make right on the duties and obligations of the Papacy.

Brother Desmond's words made his stomach toss in anger and sadness. Desmond could be right...after all, the Order of Saint Sebastian had more or less led the Church for a hundred year span that included a rather prosperous time, where the Church had enjoyed great wealth and military power. It was clear that the de facto leader was insistent on bringing about a return to that era, an era where the Order of Saint Sebastian did far more than administer healing and offer prayers. Brother Ian Desmond wanted to have a voice, no, _the _voice in the Vatican.

"We need to hold out, brother," Caterina suggested, "we have to be firm and wait until they relent. There is no need to give into such demands."

"But sister...I don't want them to make them mad. What if they change their minds?"

Caterina was used to this sort of reaction. "Alec, it will be all right. The Order does not deserve any of those things because they owe repentance. They are the ones who have committed the sins against the Church and hated us for so long. All they deserve is being back in your good graces."

"I guess that sounds right," commented the Pope.

"Yes, Your Holiness." She wondered if the Pope would ever become the man he needed to be. "You and I are to meet with Brother Desmond tomorrow to discuss more about this matter."

"All right," Alessandro yawned, "I'm tired now, sister. I think I will sleep."

"Of course, brother. I'll get the monsignor for you. Have a good rest." Caterina backed up as the Pope led her out of the papal apartment.

"You too, sister."

Monsignor Vicci returned, and aided the young pontiff in shedding his collection of papal vestments. So much majesty, so much regality, so much of a pain in the ass to take off. Still, he carefully took off each one, handing them to Vicci. His life was never one that provided for great rest, so he had to take full advantage of opportunity. He put on his night clothes the monsignor had laid out earlier and climbed between the sheets.

"Goodnight, Your Holiness," said Vicci, as he hung up the pallium and turned off the light.

"Goodnight, Monsignor." Laying his head back on his pillow, Pope Alessandro welcomed the cool recesses of sleep.

* * *

Nightfall came quickly upon Rome, and the Vatican lay silent. Cold marble and empty halls yielded not even an echo. Some would say that everything became that much more reverent under the dark night sky. The only exception to this was Father Tres, who required no sleep and kept himself busy classifying and reviewing files and memories. Tres' programming also required a more extensive set of self-maintenance programs during which he had to temporarily let down his guard. It also hindered his ability to monitor the environment around him.

The change in the atmosphere may not have been something Tres could have picked up on his sensors to begin with. Humans would refer to it as the hair-raising feeling you get when things go bump in the night. It was too subtle; the air became heavier, damp, and the few lights left on for the duration of the night became ever so slightly dimmer. Then, several sanctuary candles lit by the papal apartments were suddenly extinguished.

The doors to the papal apartment slipped open, as if a thief were quietly entering the residence. Scattering footsteps, like those one might expect a spider to made, followed. The window to the famous balcony where Popes addressed their flock softly began to open, bringing the chill of night air through the entire quarters.

The Pope lay sleeping. A serene look of peace occupied his face, and his soft breathing made barely a sound. Alessandro had always loved to sleep, and when he had been younger, used to sleep through the night well into the afternoon. The softness of his pillow, the comfort of sheets - it was a sanctuary he never wanted to leave.

The cold wind brushed across the boy's face, causing him to stir. The patter of the spider steps came again, echoing off the cool marble of the apartment. The dampness of the room climbed, and the slight chill began its descent to a freeze. The soft breathing of the Pope became increasingly labored, until the inability to catch his breath forced him to sit straight up in bed.

"What's…happening…" He whimpered.

The scattering of steps was heard again, and the room went pitch black. Alessandro cringed, pulling his knees to his chest. The light from the windows, the light that he kept on in his office for the duration of the night - they were all hidden. He could barely see six inches in front of his face. His heart was pounding; he had never experienced fear this close to home.

"**Hello, Alec." **mocked a voice that seemed to ring from every corner of the room.

"Ww..waa…" Alessandro tried to speak but could only cry.

The voice laughed. **"Do you know who I am? Does it scare you, Pope? You are the most miserable worm I have ever seen. You shouldn't have made it past infancy and yet you sit in a seat of such power."**

The Pope felt a presence at the end of his bed, then felt it slide up until it was on top of him, crushing his frail body.

"**Do you fear for your life, worm? Your insignificant life? It would be far too easy for me to snap you like a twig just yet. So, let us have a little fun."**

The voice went silent, and the heavy presence Alessandro felt constricting him began to lift. The darkness remained.

Suddenly, the sheets were thrown off the bed, followed by the pillows. A force grabbed the young pontiff by the ankles and pulled him off the bed. The Pope opened his mouth to scream in agony, but no sound came forth.

"**Go ahead, try to scream. They won't hear you. No one will. No one ever will again."**

The force that held Alessandro's ankles then forced him up and slammed him against the wall. He fell to the ground in agony, but the strength of the invisible hand picked him back up and threw him across the room, against the other wall. This time, the boy slammed his head on the marble and lost consciousness. Blood began to drip out a small wound, but the punishment only continued. He was thrown against the floor, smashed repeatedly into walls, battered on door and window frames, thrown into a window, and at one point, even suspended against the high ceiling.

Knowing that the Pope was at the height pleased the presence in the room beyond word. Hours of torture, brutal and physical, were amazingly fun to conduct. The most fun part was putting on the finishing touches.

With nary an objection, the lifeless body of Alessandro fell from the ceiling, landing with a cold and definite crash on the floor of the bedroom.


	9. Stato D'Arresto

**Stato D'Arresto  
****By: James Austin Valiant**

"...eleven, twelve, thirteen," The priest counted.

Esther sighed, pressing her palm to her face. "Really, Father Nightroad, must you count each sugar cube?"

Abel grinned widely. "But of course, Miss Esther. Each little cube should be accounted for, before they take the plunge in becoming the most delicious part of my day."

The redhead nun sipped her own tea, content with two sugars. She actually enjoyed his bumbling behavior at breakfast most of the time. After the solemn manner of morning prayer, his humor was a welcome change.

"Can I get you a bowl of porridge, Father?"

"Oh please, Sister Esther, I'll get some for the both us." He began to stand up.

The nun's gloved hand firmly grasped his shoulder, keeping him in his seat.

"Really, Father. I insist."

"Fine, but just this once," Abel relented. He never wanted to make her feel like she had to serve him. Father Nightroad had witnessed plenty of priests treat nuns no better than servants, just because of a silly ranking system. Esther was every bit as equal to him as Tres or Leon. _Well, maybe not Leon…_

The priest placed his chin in his hands, elbows propped up on the table. The cafeteria line got his attention, and he scanned over the various clergy and staff. They were all dressed in simple robes or cassocks and Abel took great pleasure in their familiarity. He noticed Esther, standing in line, making small talk with another nun.

_She makes friends so easily! I was worried for her at first, because she was so shy when I first brought her here, but now she's a regular social butterfly! _Esther turned around to claim the hot cereal. _And really, not a bad behind on that girl either! EEP! Gotta remember that one for confession! _

The young nun returned with two steaming bowls of porridge, placing one down in front of Father Nightroad.

"Thank you, Sister Esther," He picked up his spoon, "shall we say grace?"

"Of course! How rude it would be not to! Bishop Laura always told us that if you eat without saying grace, you're basically a thief," Esther explained. She extended her small hands across the table.

Abel clasped them readily. His large hands almost enveloped her small ones. "Bless us, O Lord, and these your gifts which we are about to receive from your bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen."

"Amen," repeated the nun, and picked up her spoon. She swirled it around in her porridge before scooping a spoonful to her mouth.

Abel followed her routine, doing his best not to draw attention to his eating habits. He politely brought his first spoonful to his mouth, and savored the soupy gruel.

"Father Abel Nightroad. Sister Esther Blanchett."

Tres' voice rang suddenly above their heads.

"Yes, Father Tres?"

"Please accompany me to Cardinal Sforza's office. There has been an incident."

* * *

The door to Caterina's office was slightly ajar. Tres pushed it, and the three of them entered the room. Father Leon, the Professor, Sister Kate and of course Cardinal Sforza were already present.

Esther noticed that there was a despicable sort of silence about the room. Everyone was hushed and mumbling words in whispers. Even the Professor's normally jovial nature was subdued. They seemed distraught and sad about something. Esther's gaze then fell on Caterina. The proud, confident cardinal had shed her brilliant red miter, her normally well-styled hair lay flat on her shoulders, and her eyes were red and puffy.

"What is going on here?" questioned Abel.

"Father Nightroad, it's not easy to explain," began Father Leon, "there's been an attack."

"What sort of attack?" He aimed his question specifically towards the cardinal.

"My brother, Abel...the Pope has been attacked."

"His Holiness, attacked! Here, in the Vatican? This makes no sense!" Abel's shock turned into scattered, tumbling words.

"How was His Holiness attacked without the knowledge of his guard? What are the current whereabouts of Brother Petros?" Tres's questions were grounded in logic.

"We don't know, Tres - the security systems to the papal apartments were disabled, and the guard, even Brother Petros and Monsignor Vicci, claimed to have heard nothing. They're both in questioning right now." answered the Professor.

"But where is the Pope?" Esther feared for the frail pontiff. "Is he going to be all right?"

"He is currently under the care of the best medical staff available. But Pope Alessandro is in very critical condition...the doctors say he is very lucky to be alive. A few more hours alone and he would have died, alone in his bedroom." The Professor responded, appearing a pale shade of gray.

Fresh tears occupied Caterina's eyes, and her loud sobbing filled the room. Abel rushed past the other AX agents, sweeping around the massive desk and coming to the cardinal's side. Kneeling down, he placed his hands on hers.

"Caterina...Caterina...we will find who did this to him."

"You don't understand, Abel…" Caterina's words were choked by her sobs, "...he is my brother...I couldn't protect him...I couldn't save him…"

"I know, Caterina, I know," He drew her hands close to his chest, and she looked up at his eyes. The same kind eyes that she had seen all those years ago, the eyes that brought her comfort and made her feel safe.

"We'll find who did this."

"It is already known!"

The booming voice of Francesco echoed off the walls of Caterina's office, and the AX team respectfully allowed him to pass by. He did not acknowledge any of them, and marched straight in front of his half-sister and her silver haired agent.

"This," Francesco spat, "was found upon a more intensive search of His Holiness's bed chambers."

He tossed a small scrap of rough, brown cloth on the desk. Abel recognized the imprinting on it, but couldn't place it. _Strange, I feel like I only just saw this yester- _It dawned on him. The symbol on the scrap was clearly the seal of the Order of Saint Sebastian. _That means that the man responsible for this attack is none other than…_

"Brother Desmond is the one who attacked His Holiness!" Francesco's fury climbed, "and while that monster of a monk is mainly responsible, it is YOU, Caterina, who holds the true blame! You pushed for the Pope to open dialogue with that scum and his wretched Order! Heal old wounds? How about healing his wounds? What were you thinking?"

Francesco turned his attention towards the other members of AX, and concentrated on Esther.

"You! You were the one who brought him here! You are just as guilty of this as Caterina!" Cardinal Francesco's bright red face was mere inches away from Esther.

"But...but...Your Eminence…" Esther could easily see how the Pope was so timid, "I was doing my duty."

"TO HELL WITH YOUR DUTY! That man is a menace and has injured the Pope!"

"JUST STOP IT!"

Francesco's anger was interrupted by brief surprise, as Father Nightroad suddenly towered above him.

"You listen here, Cardinal - no one here is to blame. Standing around here, playing the blame game is not going to get the Pope better, and it certainly brings us no closer to bringing Brother Desmond to justice. YOUR SISTER AND ESTHER DO NOT DESERVE THIS TREATMENT FROM YOU!" Abel realized he was screaming. Francesco appeared smaller having been put in his place.

_Did Father Nightroad just stand up to the second most powerful man in the Vatican and defend *me*? _Esther's thoughts were racing.

The proud Cardinal quickly regained his composure. "Yes, Brother Desmond must be arrested and brought to justice!"

"Leon and Abel, arrest Brother Desmond," came the weak but still dominant voice of Caterina, "Professor, you go with them. I want you to form a report on his condition. Father Tres, I am entrusting you with guarding Brother Desmond. Do not let him out of a cell for any reason, and disregard any order that would have you do anything contrary. You have your orders."

The four priests rushed out of the room without words.

* * *

Brother Desmond opened his eyes, slowly bringing himself out of slumber. He looked out the small opening of his room that served as a window. The bright sun seemed to be waning. It must have been at least two hours after morning prayer. It was odd for Desmond to sleep past five o'clock in the morning. He liked to be up and ready for morning prayer as soon as it began.

The monk yawned and sat up in his bed. He stretched, feeling unusually sore muscles in every part of his body. This was also odd; ever since the initial work that came with joining the Order, he hadn't had a sore muscle. Maybe it was just the stress of the situation.

He wondered how long he had until his audience with the Pope and Cardinal Sforza. Perhaps he might have time to walk around, even see the Vatican Museum…

"Brother Ian Desmond!"

The monk looked up to see Father Nightroad and three other priests he didn't recognize inside his room and aiming guns at him.

"Father Nightroad? What is the meaning of this?"

"You are under arrest for the severe assault and battering of His Holiness, Pope Alessandro XVIII. Put your hands where they can be seen." Father Tres said.

"This is ridiculous!"

"Hands where they can be seen, ya whacko!" Father Leon chimed in, wielding a pair of handcuffs.

"I most certainly did no such thing!" Desmond raised his arms straight into the air, just in case someone's trigger finger got itchy.

A strange series of dark markings were present on the monk's hands and upper arms, as well as on his chest and down his torso. He squinted and look closer. They were dried and spotty, mostly a deep reddish brown.

"No...it can't be...blood…" Brother Desmond rose from his bed in horror, right in to the waiting handcuffs of the AX agents.


	10. Interrogatrio di Professore

**Interrogatrio di Professore  
****By: James Austin Valiant**

_There's a way to figure this out. There's always a way._

Father William Walter Wordsworth couldn't remember how many times he'd repeated those same words to himself: it had become his mantra over time. No matter how many times established science had said otherwise, Father Wordsworth had been able to prove otherwise. The rest of AX considered their Professor to be a miracle worker of sorts, able to improvise and adapt to any complication thrown his way.

_The matter of the Pope's attack is quite different. _

It was not the type of improvisation the Professor was used to. He had ventured to the papal apartment, amidst the flurry of other personnel. The place was more than a crime scene, it represented a breach to their whole system, a deadly stab to their entire faith.

The Professor had stood there, taking it all in, as the other men and women investigated in a bustle around him. They swabbed blood samples from the floor, took notes about the condition of the room, catalogued the shards of broken glass.

He recognized the men, most of them, anyway. William knew these were either members of the Inquisition or forensic scientists hired by Francesco and recognized that the incident with the Pope was becoming worse as it transformed from a tragedy into a power struggle between Francesco and Caterina. The cardinals in residence at the Vatican had yet to formally convene on the matter. The Professor knew that, in accordance with centuries old Church law, a conclave to elect a new Pope could not convene while Alessandro still had the potential to recover.

Turning his attention back to the room, the Professor immediately found something he didn't care for. The walls, the floor, and the windows all showed signs of abuse - but the door to the bedroom itself didn't. It was almost as the attacker had let himself in quietly.

The Professor took his pipe from his pocket, along with a small pinch of tobacco. Packing it firmly in the bowl, he withdrew a match and lit it. He knew, as a man of science, that it was a bad habit, a deadly one at that. But smoking relaxed him and allowed him to think more clearly, which he needed to do right now. The Professor had a sneaking suspicion there was more at work here than any of them could grasp at. The long trail of smoke left his nostrils.

_The floors, the walls - there are marks here..._The Professor took careful note. These were not mere chips or cracks. Serious amounts of marble were torn out of the wall, some as wide across as his hand. They were purposeful, not accidental. William smirked; there was no way anyone as normal looking as Brother Desmond had made this damage.

The scuttle around the Professor continued as he strode about the room. While the room was destroyed, there was nothing missing. Considering all the valuables contained within the apartment and the Pope's study, it was more than a little strange that everything was still in the residence.

Another sharp inhale brought the comfortable taste of tobacco to the back of the his tongue. It was true that the Order of Saint Sebastian was a group who believed that Alessandro was a false Pope, but then, why did Desmond seem so shocked that he had been so critically injured? Desmond had no allies or friends in the Vatican; could it be possible someone was framing him?

It was time to talk to the source.

* * *

Father Tres was a steadfast guard.

He had been standing outside Desmond's cell since Father Leon and Father Nightroad had thrown the monk in it. He had been imprisoned six point five hours. Tres had been monitoring constantly; no sound had come from the room since the one point five hour mark. The android priest did not care whether Desmond made a sound or not, so long as he remained alive.

In the near distance, Tres observed an approaching figure.

"Professor."

"Hello, Tres," He patted the Killing Doll on the head, "are all your systems functioning within normal parameters?"

"Affirmative. Are you here to conduct your report on Brother Ian Desmond?"

"Of course. May I have access, please?"

Tres turned to unlock the cell door. "I shall serve as your accompaniment. "

"Thank you, but I'll be fine, my boy."

"Surrender your weapons, Professor."

"Come again?"

Tres's stoic expression did not change. "Allowing entry of an armed person to the confines of Brother Ian Desmond's prison cell is a direct violation of orders. Repeat: surrender your weapons, Professor."

"Oh, Tres, you are truly a most exemplary officer!" The Professor grinned. He removed his gun, a small knife and a pen and willingly relinquished them to the waiting android.

"Professor, this is merely a writing implement." Tres reasoned, holding up the pen.

"Ahh...of course it is!" The priest lied. He had to keep some projects secret after all. "Just hang on to it, please?"

"Positive."

The Professor nudged the door to Desmond's cell open. This cell was even smaller than he remembered most of them being. Of course, these cells had been built close to five centuries ago, when the Vatican had been more interested in political gains than holy ones. The priest heard Tres close and lock the cell door behind him.

"Brother Desmond?"

The room was bare, save for a concrete slab that served as a bed. Even by a monk's standards, it was desolate. The Albionian priest's eyes adjusted to the low level of light in the room, and he saw him. A crumbled mess of humanity and brown robe, occupying the corner of the room closest to a slight crack in the wall that served as a window. The monk was scratching at the wall with his fingernail, making some sort of marking.

"What do you want?" Desmond spat.

_Hm, well, he sounds pleasant…_ "I'm Father William Walter Wordsworth. I've come to ask you a few questions."

"I suppose you want to know where I was last night, or what my alibi could be?" The monk jested bitterly.

"That would be a good place to start."

"I was asleep. In my assigned quarters." He stated firmly.

"Okay, and what time was this?" The Professor began taking notes.

"You believe me, don't you? Someone here must believe me!" Desmond's voice grew louder.

The Professor sighed and rubbed his eyes. "This is not a matter of me believing you or not. This is a matter of facts, and the facts are as such: The Pope has been attacked and is in critical condition and the only piece of evidence is a torn piece of your own robe, bearing the insignia of the Order of Saint Sebastian. It is far beyond my responsibility to deem you guilty or innocent, but a refusal to cooperate in this interview would surely not look too favorable for you."

The monk's posture relaxed, but his voice remained fierce and defiant.

"Ask your questions, Father. I shall answer them, for I have much more important business here to attend to."

"Now, Brother, what time would you say you fell asleep?"

"It must have been sometime after ten o'clock, after I attended evening prayers and returned to my quarters for my nightly novena."

"Did you encounter anyone on your way there?" The Professor continued.

Brother Desmond shook his head. "I almost tripped over a stray cat, and I noticed Father Tres was following me, but other than that, I had contact with no one."

"Hmm…" The Professor clamped his teeth down on his pipe. "Did you eat?"

"I did not. As is customary among the Order, I abstained from food yesterday."

"Hmm…" The Professor repeated.

"And what is that supposed to mean, priest?"

Desmond's words took on a more menacing tone, and his defiant attitude seemed to border on violence.

"It means nothing, Brother. I am merely taking notes of everything you say." The Professor calmly explained.

"No, no, no! You Vatican dogs, you are all the same! You are under the command of a false Pope, and you follow his decrees with no question as to why such an insufficient being has been chosen to lead Holy Mother Church. You continuously prove tha-

"Are you a vampire?"

The question cut the monk's rant, and silence reigned the cell.

The Professor patiently waited for Desmond to respond.

**"Am I a what?" **The monk's voice sounded different; deeper, stronger.

"I said, are you a vam-"

**"I heard the question, you sodding fool! How dare you accuse me of being a vampire! You claim to be a know-it-all, but are really just a know-nothing. If you could only be enlightened as to how the world, nay, how the universe really works, you would gain so much understanding. Maybe you would have been able to figure out that experiment you screwed up on so many years ago at Londinium University!"**

The Professor stopped taking notes. "What did you say?"

An odious stench began to fill the room, overtaking the already strong smell of the priest's pipe.

**"You heard me, priest. Your experiment at Londinium - the one you conducted with von Kampfer. Imagine how things would have been different had you managed to be successful. Maybe von Kampfer would not fallen into the hands of the Rosen Kreuz so easily…"**

He ignored the accusation.

"So, it is them you are aligned with?"

The monk laughed, and the Professor shivered.

**"I am aligned with no one but myself, priest." **

The pencil and pad flung from the priest's hands across the room. _Did I just...did I just do that out of anger? _The Professor rubbed his eyes. The air in the room was thick, and the stench was choking him. That rotten stench that reeked of the sewers…

He looked back in Brother Desmond's direction. The monk stood proudly, his posture stiff and rigid, his eyes blank and glassy. He was gesturing in the direction of the Albionian priest, as his lips moving wordlessly. The Professor then noticed something that shook him deeply.

Brother Desmond was floating a good half-meter off the ground.

_It can't be!_

"TRES!"

The cell door flung open. As Tres entered, the Professor noted that the stench was clearing the room, and the monk's body crumpled from its perch and fell to the floor. The priest had never been more relieved to see the sight of the robotic Tres.

"Damage report, Professor. Brother Ian Desmond seems to have been injured as well."

"I am fine, Tres, just fine," The Professor lied, collecting his pad and pencil, "I was just concerned. I think the good Brother here might be a little malnourished, he was fasting all day yesterday."

"I shall see he is provided with nourishment. You should report to Cardinal Sforza immediately." Tres answered.

"Of course, of course!" The Professor's smile waned. Turning on his heel, he left the fallen monk and the Killing Doll. As he walked, he pulled out his pad and pencil and began revising his notes.

_There's a way to figure this out. There's always a way._

* * *

"Come in!"

Caterina Sforza answered the knock at her door, and was relieved to see the Professor enter her office. She had only recently been able to pull herself together after the attack on her brother's life. Oh, poor Alec - how he was most always caught in the middle of the immense power struggle between herself and Francesco. Not that Francesco was letting up, either. Her informants had told her that Francesco was using this incident as a way to paint Caterina as a severe danger, not only to the Pope, but the entire Vatican and Church itself.

"Good evening, Your Eminence."

"Good evening, Professor. Did you finish your report?"

"Well….yes and no." The intelligent priest stammered.

"And that means?"

"I didn't have ample time to create a formal report, because I felt the information I collected was too important to not share immediately." He explained.

"I see. Well," Caterina was highly suspicious, "what do you think?"

"We are dealing with a man who is deeply disturbed, Your Eminence. I believe he is a violently psychotic individual, who has had these tendencies for some time and with a change in his usual circumstances, finally saw fit to execute them."

"Go on."

"People with his condition often premeditate these sorts of attacks for years and years, carefully plotting and planning every move and possible outcome. It is my belief that he not only studied the interior of the papal apartments, but had it memorized inside and out."

"How do you explain the immense destruction?"

The Professor clamped down on his pipe. "Those experiencing a massive rush of adrenaline, such as the one Brother Desmond must have been feeling, often are able to perform feats that would appear superhuman."

The last statement made Caterina even more suspicious. "Let me see your notes."

His jaw dropped. "But...but that is my analysis. What do you need to see my notes for?"

"William." Her voice took an authoritative tone. "Your notes."

The Professor walked to the desk and begrudgingly handed her his pad. Caterina readily accepted it, and began perusing the pages. He sighed, loading up his pipe with another tear of tobacco. _She's sure taking her time reading those things - why can't she just trust my formal opinions? Most of what I wrote is a knee jerk reaction to my observations! _

"Professor."

"Your Eminence."

"You know what these observations mean, don't you?"

The Albionian priest shook his head. "I know what they say, and I've already told you what they mean."

"I can't believe myself either, William, but we have to face facts here," Caterina sighed, rubbing her temples, "My God, I haven't heard of anything like this in years. The Pope was attacked in the middle of the night, brutally beaten almost to death, and no one heard it. Then, the chief suspect claims to know nothing, yet we find him covered in blood. He seems to know things about us that no one but a close confidante would know, and he exhibits and provokes strange and unusual behaviors."

"But, Your Eminence, the supposed levitation could have been merely a trick of the low level of light in the room, and I may have flung the pencil and pad out of anger, and of course, his knowledge of anyone's past could be the result of intelligence gathering!" the Professor insisted.

"Say what you want, William, but I think we both know what's going on here. This has reeked of the supernatural since the beginning." She paused. "We're going to need to find him."

The Professor sighed, instantly knowing who Caterina was referring to. "But he's so...so disagreeable. No one can stand him. How can we work with a man like him?"

"Nevertheless, Professor. This is an order." Caterina clicked a small button on her desk. "Sister?"

A novice nun entered the office. "Yes, Your Eminence?"

"Please deliver a message to the Basilica of St John Lateran. Tell Father Giuseppe Pommodori I require an audience with him this evening."

"Yes, Your Eminence." The novice nun left, intent on her errand.

"I still can't believe it's come to the this," The Professor removed his pipe and puffed out a short series of smoke rings.

"I know, Professor," agreed Caterina, "it has been decades since we needed his services. Hopefully, time hasn't hindered his faith and abilities."

"Indeed, Your Eminence," the Professor placed his pipe back in his mouth, "after all, what good is an infirm exorcist?"


	11. Qui Es In Caelis

**Qui Es In Caelis  
****By: James Austin Valiant**

The sweet sound of his manual can opener was something the old priest cherished. Not because he had trouble using the device, but because of the treasure that the can itself held. The soft, pink fish was tender and flakey, with fragile flavor that enveloped every last one of his taste buds. The yellow fin tuna, once pursued to almost extinction off the coast of Spain, was now in abundance, and it was the packed in oil variety that the old priest loved the most. Each bite was an adventure in itself, the most peril the priest allowed to himself these days.

A soft rap on the door caused the priest to stir, and he was momentarily distracted from his treat.

"Hello?"

The last thing Guiseppe Pommodori wanted to do was get up. It took the full effort of his seventy-eight years to get out of his recliner. These days he barely left his small residence, preferring the comfort of his books and his memories to company. He was listed in the Church directory as "Retired", which allowed him a fair degree of privacy.

He groaned as he shuffled towards the door. Every once and while, the aging priest would welcome a visit from an old parishioner or a request to celebrate Mass. If he was lucky, this might be one of those days. He spied the novice nun via the peephole.

"Can I help you, Sister?"

"Father Pommodori? I have a message for you from Cardinal Sforza."

_Ah, Caterina the Troublemaker..._Father Pommodori knew her all too well. She had been a real spitfire during her seminary days, when he had taken a brief rotation as a part time professor. He liked to think that Caterina had only made it as far as she did because of her family connections. _But that's not true! With an attitude like that, she was bound to become influential._

"What is the message?"

"Well, um…" The novice nun was made slightly uncomfortable by the priest wanting to conduct conversation through the door. "She wishes to see you this evening."

"I am but an old priest. What business could she have with me?"

"I'm not sure, Father. I just know she wants to see you."

"Well, that will be quite impossible." The aging priest turned back to his freshly-opened can of tuna.

Outside, the novice nun bit her lip and fell silent. Serving Caterina Sforza was a great privilege for her, and she didn't want to return with bad news.

"What reason should I give the Cardinal?"

As far as Guiseppe Pommodori was concerned, safe behind his door again, the novice nun was already out of mind. The small fork he used to savor every bite of tuna was tenderly grasped between his well weathered thumb and forefinger, and he speared his first bite.

The soft rap that the nun had first used was replaced by forceful, loud pounding.

"FATHER!"

The old priest could not ignore this noise, despite the savory fish melting on his tongue. He whipped open the door.

"Sister, I am not interested in meeting with the good Cardinal. Please tell her that whatever need she has of me can be addressed by coming to see me directly. I am not hard to find and seldom leave my room here at the church."

The nun let out a sharp exhale, gathering her courage.

"Father Pommodori, please see the Cardinal this evening. I am positive this is not some sort of social call, or else she would not have contacted you in the first place. Father, I am certain that Her Eminence would not trouble you if the situation did not call for it!"

The old priest soured. "You have a sharp tongue for a young novice."

Her spirit dropped to the floor, as did her eyes. "Yes, Father. I only wish to see my lady's orders carried out."

"I can admire that."

The novice nun's voice turned hopeful. "Really?"

"Of course. I was a young man in my deacon year once, and I had to be a disrespectful spitfire on more than one occasion. Tell the Cardinal I will see her this evening at seven o'clock."

The nun nodded eagerly and turned on her way.

Father Pommodori eyed his small fork, before placing it on his packed bookshelf. The entire top shelf was dedicated to books he had written, some that had been published more than thirty years prior. They were not soft material, and as a matter of fact, had been banned from most libraries. It had been decades since he had even skimmed them, and they sat there, covered in dust.

He plucked another sampling of the wonderful Spanish yellow fin tuna from the small tin, and placed it gently on his tongue. The taste, which just moments ago had been delicate and satisfying, was now slick and overly greasy. He grimaced, making an effort to swallow.

The priest once again turned his attention to the books packed on his top shelf. He traced his finger along the spines, revealing the titles. _The Souls of Night. _Another came to view. _Prayers for the Damned. _And the last one, his most controversial: _The Exorcism of Istvan. _

_I am so tired..._Father Guiseppe Pommodori thought. _And I fear for what the Cardinal may ask me to do._

He left the tuna opened on the table, and retrieving his rosary, placed himself in his chair, and began to pray.

* * *

The cream-colored walls of the museum were shadowed and dark, this wing of the Vatican Museum had been closed for some time. The eighteenth century artworks housed there were a remarkable asset to not only the Vatican, but the entire human population. Most similar artifacts of their past had been lost during the decades of warfare. However, this wing has remained intact.

The paintings and works of art had been hidden by the caretakers of the Vatican Museum, housed during the heavy periods of bombings in secret underground storage. The caretakers had instructed their children on the care of these treasures, keeping this part of history alive and well-preserved. Recently, the more secure nature of day-to-day life and lax in physical strikes from the Methuselah had allowed for the Museum to re-open to patrons, and for the art to be restored in it's original capacity.

A petite woman stepped softly around marble floors. She was clad in the uniform of a curator, a white blouse with a maroon vest and short, maroon skirt. The young lady had remained in the building, even though the museum itself had closed a couple of hours ago. She gazed in wonder at the multitude of art that communicated to her from ages ago. One in particular seemed to shout to her, judging by the way her eyes lingered on it.

A ripe moon hung in a moody cerulean sky. The horizon was moderately illuminated with the fading embers of the sunset, as three figures observed the lunar satellite with an early telescope. The most striking aspect was the peeking streams of light shining through the growing darkness of the background imagery; it struck a familiar cord with the young woman. _How many times have I experienced this? How often do I encounter that darkness, searching for the fine points of light that elude me?_

She scanned to the small information card, and squinted to read it in the lack of light. This series of paintings was Donato Creti's Astronomical Observations, painted to convince the Pope of the time that the Vatican needed an observatory. _So much emotion and forethought put into these paintings..._She went on to read that Clement XI had indeed commissioned an observatory, partly due to influence from Creti's works.

A sharp, scratching sound brought her attention away from the Creti piece, and she hurriedly dashed behind a corner. The whirring and humming of the electrical devices echoed in the dank silence of the wing, and the red-haired woman peered out from behind her hiding place.

The shadow of a person was centered near a painting of a rather regally dressed man. He had withdrawn a small device, and its humming appeared to be shorting out the delicate security technology. From her hiding place, the woman was neither surprised or startled; the file on this thief had been steadily accumulating, and the office was determined to stop him, since the insidious entity had managed to pilfer the icon of Our Lady of Kazan.

Satisfied that all the security systems had been deactivated, the gloved hands of the thief reached up to take the painting off the wall. His fingertips grazed the richly stained frame, drinking in his latest conquest.

"Hold it right there!"

Sister Esther stepped from behind the corner, her gun drawn and aimed at the shadowy figure.

"Back away from the painting, hands where I can see them!"

The startled man abandoned his stealthy candor and ripped the painting off the wall. He held it in between himself and the determined nun, using the work of art as a virtual hostage.

"You'll never take me, Vatican dog! I've worked too hard on this, for too long...you want to shoot me," He smirked beneath his hood, "you're going to have to go through the painting!"

The confident thief backed away from the young nun-turned-curator, whose gun remained focused squarely on the retreating criminal. The visage she saw, however, was not of the shadowed man, but rather, a stately looking young man, clad in what looked to be Albion regalia, a navy overcoat, with an impressive white uniform beneath. Something about this image spoke to her even more than the Creti works, and Esther fought to keep her aim steady.

The thief chuckled. "You'll never arrest me, silly girl. The risk of destroying this priceless work is too great for you t-"

"Stop where you are!"

The chuckling stopped immediately, and the man felt a sharp pressure being applied to the small of his back, and the familiar click of a gun being cocked.

"Put the painting down, and place your hands on your head!" Father Nightroad had arrived just in time. It was a pleasant change of pace; usually, Esther found herself bailing the priest out of a tight spot. She was glad he was finally paying her back.

As soon as the painting was placed down, Abel tackled the man, forcing his wrists into the standard issue handcuffs. "In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, you are under arrest for attempted robbery, and for grand theft of several other classical masterpieces."

Esther relaxed as the silver-haired priest pulled the criminal to his feet, and she placed her gun back in her holster. She smoothed out her maroon skirt, and moved to examine the painting the thief had so longed to steal. Her gaze seemed to sink in the painting, and she caressed the frame. Was she supposed to know something more about this?

Abel finished subduing the man, and glanced in Esther's direction. Usually, his red-haired comrade was in full force when they moved to capture a criminal.

"Miss Esther? Are you all right?"

She brought her arms to her sides. "Father Nightroad? Who is this painting of?"

The priest furrowed his brow, studying the stately man. "I haven't a clue."

"Fools!" The thief spat, his first words since Abel had tackled him. "That's King George IV of Old Albion. He was an instrumental part of history; it was the partnership of Old Albion and the Holy See that brought an end to the reign of Napoleon. This piece is priceless to the Kingdom of Albion, and they would have paid handsomely to have seen it returned!"

Esther scowled at the man. "So, what are you? The Robin Hood of historical paintings?"

"Yes! I am releasing these works, so long held by the Vatican, back to their rightful owners! Make sure you put me in the books under that name!" His declarations came in a scream, making them that much more annoying.

"Robin Hood stole from the rich to give to the poor; he didn't steal from the Church to profit for himself." Father Nightroad corrected.

"Father Abel Nightroad. Sister Esther Blanchett. Damage report."

The mechanical tone of Father Tres' voice startled the duo and their captive.

"Oh, Father Tres, we're just fine, thank you." Esther smiled.

"I was referring to the painting. Has the work of Thomas Lawrence been damaged?" The android priest moved to inspect the painting, picking it up in a gingerly fashion.

"Idiot! I would never damage a work of art! Ever!" The thief yelled at Father Tres.

"Inspection complete. There is an indication that the painting was forcibly removed from its position on the southwestern wall of Room XV of the Pinacoteca. Rough estimates for repair and reinstallation stand at 400,000 lira." Tres surmised.

"...four...hundred...thousand…" Abel's jaw dropped. He usually barely had enough monthly allowance to feed himself, and the repair on this painting was more than he'd earn in five lifetimes.

"...why...that...could buy...sugar…" Abel continued babbling, and Esther could see him calculating the price in bags of sugar. She reached over and clamped a hand over his mouth, silencing him so Tres could speak.

"Father Nightroad and Sister Esther, I will accompany you in escorting the thief to a waiting cell. We are then to convene with Cardinal Sforza, who has brought in a specialist to deal with Brother Desmond."

"A specialist?

Tres did not answer. He turned and began to walk back down the dimly lit hallway.

"What do you think he means by specialist, Father?" Esther whispered to Abel as they escorted their prisoner behind the android.

"I don't know, Miss Esther," Abel replied, biting his lip, "but I'm confident Lady Caterina will find our answer."

* * *

"Good evening, Your Eminence."

The scarlet clad woman arose from behind her large, oak desk. She bowed her head to the older priest. Caterina took note of his faded, tattered cassock and the small black bag he carried.

Time had not been kind to the old priest; he appeared more shrunken and wrinkled than she remembered. The rich mass of snow white hair that had once occupied his head had receded to the area around his temples. His bony fingers reached to rub his cheek, and she noticed that, above his crooked nose and sunken cheeks, his dark brown eyes retained their passion and vigor.

"Good evening, Father Pommodori. It has been a while."

The priest placed his bag on the floor. "It has. I'd be delighted to exchange pleasantries, but I know that is far from the reason you called for me."

"Of course," The Cardinal stepped out from behind her desk, a slim blue file in her hand.

"Your novice is a very spirited young woman." The old priest commented as he took the file from the Duchess.

"Is she?" Caterina was not caught off guard by the comment; she selected her staff specifically for their heart and ambition.

Father Pommodori nodded, barely an answer as he opened the file. _Brother Ian Desmond...Order of Saint Sebastian.._The priest stopped reading, his lips contorting into a emphasized frown.

"You're actually having talks with the Order of Saint Sebastian?" He spoke with disgust.

"That's not the matter at hand, Father."

"Are you reprimanding me, Your Eminence?" The priest mused, before breaking into a dry, hacking cough. The lady Cardinal rushed to his side, as he supported his frame by leaning on a chair.

"Father Pommodori! Are you going to be okay?" She laid a supportive hand on his shoulder.

"The soul is willing, but the body is weak. Forgive me, Your Eminence - I shall continue to review the file." The priest shrugged the hand off his shoulder, and turned his attention back to the printed pages in his possession.

As he reviewed, the door to Caterina's office swung open. The dark robes of the AX priests caused the snow white habit of Sister Esther to stand out even more. The young nun stood firmly, flanked on either side by the collection of priests: Father Abel Nightroad, Father Tres Iqus, Father Leon Garcia de Asturias, and Father William Walter Wordsworth.

The lady Cardinal couldn't help but smile to herself; it was quite a motley crew she had assembled to serve as her special forces. But she needed their combined faith and strength.

Especially now.

"Good evening, everyone. Allow me to introduce Father Giuseppe Pommodori. He is the specialist who has agreed to assist us with Brother Desmond."

Father Pommodori eyed the team assembled in front of him. He considered them as he scanned the pages; he recognized the Killing Doll and had taught Father Nightroad in the seminary; the other three he was not acquainted with. But the old priest had been separated from the clerical community for so long, and the AX acted exclusively of every other church-run organization, so that wasn't surprising. He finished reading and looked up.

"Good evening, everyone." He nodded to the AX agents. "Your Eminence, I believe there is more than sufficient evidence here for me to proceed."

The Cardinal nodded. "Of course, Father."

"Now wait just a minute!" Father Leon cut in, "What exactly is going on here? When are we going to be told what is going on?"

"Father Leon makes a valid argument." Father Tres spoke up, "How are we to address the situation without a proper informational briefing?"

The Cardinal glared. "Professor...you didn't tell them?"

The Professor laughed nervously, searching his pockets for his pipe. "I wasn't aware you wanted me to bring everyone up to speed, Caterina. You really could've made that more apparent."

Her glare turned icy. "Then maybe you could catch everyone up now."

"Of course, of course," The Albionian priest turned his attention away from the Duchess of Milan, mainly to avoid her gaze. "It appears, my dear AX comrades, that what we have on our hands here is nothing short of a genuine case of demonic possession."

"Wait, what?" Leon questioned.

"That can't be!" Esther insisted, "Bishop Laura always said that possession was a tool of the Church in bygone days, before people were educated about psychological disease."

"There has not been a recorded case of possession in thirty decades," Tres stated.

It was only Father Nightroad that remained silent. He had seen so much evil in the past nine hundred years, been a part of so much senseless violence. Abel knew that there was some force behind it all, some driving entity that sat on both sides of the conflict between good and evil.

_At one point, I was even sure I could become the greatest power on the side of violence, my brother and I, the rising Contra Mundi... _

"I believe you."

The other clergy present in the room shot a surprised look in the Crusnik priest's direction.

"I believe that there are...forces, forces we don't understand and never will. But they influence us, they drive us and can take control if we're not careful." He paused. "Something is not right about Brother Desmond. I've suspected that since the moment I met him. If the Professor and Lady Caterina believe it to be a genuine case of possession, I'm inclined to agree."

Esther nodded. "There is something strange about the man. But I'm not so sure about this...possession seems so extreme…"

"Extreme? Are you all out of your minds?" Leon exploded. "In this day and age, you people actually still believe in this outdated garbage? There's no such thing!"

"If the Lady says there is a case, then she is right." The android priest agreed with his superior.

"Oh, not you, too, Tres!" The Spanish priest cried out in anguish. "So now no one is on my side? What happened to skepticism? What happened to the scientific process?" Father Leon aimed his accusation at the Professor.

"Enough!"

The unfamiliar, tired shout of Father Pommodori ceased the chatter between the AX agents. He had been at the head of too many classrooms to not know where this was heading. The Spanish priest would incite them, cause turmoil and doubt. The one thing he could not afford out of this team assembled to help him was doubt.

"I am the Vatican's resident exorcist," He started after a pause, "and possibly one of the last exorcists in the world. I have seen and felt more terrifying disturbances than I care to admit to, and I usually do not discuss them. But the evidence is here. This man is most definitely possessed. It's not just the facts in this file…"

He closed his expressive eyes, doing his best to avoid sounding too melodramatic.

"...but the demonic presence that floods my senses. This entity has not only endangered the Church by brutally wounding the Holy Father, but represents a threat that more demonic attacks could be close behind. We need to assemble, to force the presence to leave. But I need all of you allied with me."

Father Pommodori broke into another fit of coughing, and the Cardinal and her AX agents crowded around his wheezing form. He fought to force a deep inhale, allowing the air to flow into his lungs. His hands reached to the Cardinal's desk, looking for something solid to hold onto.

His frail fingers slipped into deep grooves on the front of the desk. Deep, finger-like grooves...the elder priest investigated further.

"Look at these," He wheezed, sensing the remnants of a dark presence, "look at these…"

Father Tres knelt down next to Father Pommodori, scanning the imprints.

"The fingerprints ingrained on these indentations match those of Brother Ian Desmond."

Father Leon helped the old priest to his feet, and placing his hands on the man's shoulders, looked him square in the eye.

"I don't know what is going on, and I'm not sure I will...but I'm with you. We all are. To help with...whatever this is." The other clergy members nodded, agreeing with Leon's sentiments.

Father Nightroad looked to Lady Caterina. "Then I suppose the only thing we need now is the express permission of a high-ranking clergy."

Caterina nodded. "Father Pommodori, I entrust you and the AX agents with the delivery and exorcism of the soul of Brother Desmond. May God grant His wisdom and patience to assist you."


	12. L'Esercito del Demone

**L'Esercito del Demone  
****By: James Austin Valiant**

The collection of priests and the lone nun was not an uncommon scene at this hour. Usually, most of the clergy was awake and had accomplished half a day's prayer by five AM; to the casual passerby, this gathering was nothing out of the ordinary.

The style of their dress was different than most others that day; the priests wore secure, fitting cassocks accompanied by white surplices and purple stoles. The nun's usually flowing habit had been switched for a similar black cassock; she carried with her a small black bag.

An elderly priest led the pack, his balance unsteady but his stride confident, possessing the determined, burnt umber eyes of a man many years younger. Flanking him were the petite, red-haired nun and the slender, silver-haired priest; the nun appeared anxious and worried, while the priest held his head as thought leading troops to war.

Finally, three additional priests rounded out the group. The first possessed a thoughtful pondering in his eye, and a pipe clenched between strong teeth. The second priest appeared more unkempt, with long flowing hair and a heavy spread of stubble. The third seemed to be almost a moving statue; perfect walk, perfect skin, perfectly emotionless. Walking, Father Tres reviewed his programming as the sunlight fought through the stained glass and small openings.

_Exorcism is conducted by a principal exorcist, with auxiliary clergy often being recruited to aid in the rite. It is logical that Father Pommodori will lead as principal, while __the __Professor and Father Nightroad would be called upon to act as auxiliary. Leon and I will be best utilized as means to restrain Brother Desmond during the expected struggle, while Sister Esther will be nominated to recite prayers to maintain the sanctity of the exorcism._

Father Tres took note of his companions.

_They are concerned, serious, focused. I am none of these things. Fear, worry, and apprehension do not concern me. I am not scared nor disturbed. I am not human. I am machine._

The Professor allowed a sharp inhale bring the smoky taste of tobacco flooding into his mouth. He let it linger, then slowly exhaled, the grey smoke dissipating into the air.

_I'm still the only one here to have actually witnessed evidence of Brother Desmond's supernatural display. Yet, I want so badly to not have seen it; the levitation, the foul stench, the obvious telekinetic display. They haunt me because they are irrational and completely illogical. No scientific explanation, no reasonable opposition. But I suppose there's always a way._

They continued on, following the winding hallways to twisting staircases. Every step brought them closer to their final destination, to the entity they were soon to face. Father Pommodori had arranged for Brother Desmond to be moved to the underground section of the Church of the Holy Staircase; there, it was less likely they would be disturbed or that noise from the ceremony would attract curiosity.

Father Leon remained skeptical, despite seeing the grooves in Caterina's desk and having viewed photos of the destruction caused in the papal apartment. He scratched at his stubble; Leon was most comfortable when he was negligent of his appearance. _There is something fishy going on here, and I'm sticking around until I know for sure what it is! _

Father Nightroad and Sister Esther moved behind Father Pommodori at a fairly moderate pace. The old exorcist was moving faster than his years wanted to allow; twice Esther had worried the priest might trip and fall in his haste. But it was as if an external force was driving Pommodori to his destination, helping him to keep up his speed. The young nun was impressed by the sense of calm that emanated from the older priest; it soothed her own restless soul.

The expression on Abel's face remained stoic and focused. Esther was almost frightened; she had never seen Father Nightroad with that sort of expression showing but he seemed to have it down perfectly; it almost looked as though it represented an old memory, a part of his life that had been long buried. He didn't seem scared; Esther realized that none of them but her seemed scared.

"Father Nightroad…" She whispered.

His focus turned to her, and the taciturn Abel became the concerned friend.

"I'm scared, Father."

The priest offered a faint smile, then reached out and squeezed Esther's hand.

"Don't worry, Miss Esther. I'm on your side."

Those were the same words he had spoken to her, all those years ago. As he withdrew his hand and regained his hard expression, Esther wondered what exactly Father Nightroad meant by them. _'I'm on your side'...so you'll always defend me? Always fight alongside me? Or do you mean something more and you're afraid to say it? _

Comforting Esther, no matter how little, had put Abel slightly more at ease. He had put on his battle face; it was an expression he had seldom used in hundreds of years. His thoughts drifted to the years he had spent alongside Cain, as they brought ruin and death wherever they set foot. Millions had stared down the fully powered Crusnik, that sight being the last thing they saw. He shuddered. This exorcism would be a major testament to his journey for redemption; what better way to deal with a guilty soul than to aid in driving out the demons that cause harm?

Father Pommodori had overheard the whispers between the nun and his former pupil. As a student, Abel had been so eager and well-composed; always wanting to argue the different points of whatever topic had been assigned. When the older priest had been a much younger professor, the main course he had taught was Principles of Dogmatic Evolution. In it, he had come upon the disagreement and dissent brought about in the third century by the Church Father who disagreed on the nature of Christ's divinity.

The assignment had been to give brief descriptions of the conflicting sides and explain them in relevance to the accepted belief. Abel Nightroad's assignment was a staggering twenty-two pages long, with proper footnotes and citations. Professor Pommodori had been impressed; this young man had a natural ability for theology and arguing. He was pleased that Abel had attained such a high ranking position as a member of the AX.

He wondered about the others. The girl, the machine, the erudite and the hard-head - would they all be willing to follow? Pommodori knew they had pledged loyalty and devotion, but he had his doubts. The reluctance needed to stop. It was a very dangerous frame of mind to be in coming into an exorcism rite. The demon could very well use those thoughts against him.

_**"Bonus mane, pater."**_

A raspy, subdued voice sounded in his brain, interrupting his silent prayer and wishing him 'good morning' in Latin. Pommodori had sensed the demon's presence as the group came descended the final staircase. The closer he came, the stronger the influence became. As each of them descended the final step, the exorcist put up his hand to stop them. The group came to a halt, and he motioned Esther to hand him the bag. After she did, he retrieved three red, leather-bound books and a vial of holy water.

"My dear assembled brethren, it is not lightly that we proceed to this mission. Our very presence in the next room will be an offense to the supernatural force who has chosen to reside there. Think of nothing but the power of the Almighty, who has brought you together for this sole purpose. A man's soul is at stake, and we are the vessels who will deliver him. Keep your focus on Jesus Christ and you will be in no danger. Do not doubt. Do not fear. The demon will sense this. Remember: focus on Christ and you will have great power over the dark one."

Father Pommodori lightly splashed the sacred liquid on the assembled clergy, and lifted his hands in prayer.

"St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do thou, o Prince of the Heavenly Host, by the divine power of God, cast into hell, Satan and all evil spirits, who roam throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls."

"Amen." Came the simultaneous resound.

* * *

The machines hummed, monitoring the young Pope's vitality. He was back from the brink of death, thank God, and odds were that he would make a full recovery. Francesco and Caterina sat at their brother's bedside; even though they were locked in a power struggle over authority in the Vatican, this was the one place they cast it aside. Their brother's well-being concerned them more than power.

Francesco was slow to admit it, but he truly cared for Alessandro. He remembered holding the boy when the Pope was merely an infant, and being astounded by the innocence of the baby in his arms. Time had hardened the soul of the cardinal and he longed for the young pontiff to grow a backbone and stand up for himself. That day would come, he was sure, and the situation would change.

Caterina held Alec's hand. She knew he was getting better, but still felt like crying. She was supposed to her brother's protector; it was a role she had taken very seriously ever since the boy had been young. Caterina took care to neutralize whatever threatened him, be it bullies, large dogs, or loud music. It was her effort that had gotten him to the Papacy in the first place. She knew it was where he needed to be.

She knew it made him more open to attack. In that frame of mind, Francesco and herself had selected the most capable and experienced guards to serve in the Inquisition. They were all extensively skilled in hand-to-hand combat, exemplary in their handling of knives, swords and guns. Some of them even had experience piloting large tanks and aircraft carriers. They were the best of the best and the cardinals had spared no expense in securing them as their brother's safety net.

_Still, he lies here. Critically injured. _Her eyes began to mist again.

Francesco put his hand on her shoulder.

"Caterina, don't cry."

"How can I not? I'm responsible for this." She lamented.

"No, you're not," He stated firmly, "There is no way you could have known anything about this. No one could have foreseen that monk being so dangerous. He's just a monk, after all."

Caterina nodded weakly, barely agreeing with Francesco's comforting words. The fact that he felt comfortable enough at this moment to be trying to quell her guilt….it made her upset.

"Why do you only act like this in private?"

"Huh?" Cardinal deMedici had no idea what she was talking about.

The Duchess of Milan glared. "Why do you only act like you actually give a damn when no one else is around? If you truly care so much, why not actually show it where everyone can see? You aren't really concerned about any of this, so please, stop humoring me. Stop pretending for Alec's sake."

"I'm not pretending! I do care!' His voice began to climb. "But when you're a position of power, you can't show you care! You have to pretend, you have to hide...people don't want weak leaders! If they did, everyone in charge would need as much help as the boy needs from you and I!"

"You need to leave."

He stared back at her, arms crossed. "I'm not going anywhere."

Caterina stood and walked to the door.

"I'm sorry, Caterina."

She paused.

"I'm sorry that I accused you of being the one that brought this upon our brother. You were the only one daring enough to try and negotiate with the Order. On one hand, it's commendable. On the other, risky. I'm also sorry…"

There was a long silence.

"...that I have to hide my feelings for the sake of the public eye."

Lady Caterina smiled facetiously.

"No, you're not," She replied curtly, "But that's to be expected."

Francesco focused his attention back on the Pope as their sister left the room. Same ashen complexion, same bruises and cuts. A familiar thought entered the cardinal's head, one he'd wished he'd said aloud to while Caterina had been in the room. Still, saying it now wouldn't hurt, either.

"Alec is weak because we keep him weak. He'll be strong when we leave him be."

* * *

The overpowering stench flooding the room made Father Nightroad gag. He desperately wished he'd brought something to plug up his nose, as it was pretty unbearable. He witnessed Leon and Esther choking on it as well; Tres was luckily enough to be a machine and the Professor had enough tobacco lingering on his person that it was the second most powerful scent in the room. Abel swallowed; he needed his stomach to be strong. He needed to be strong.

_Father Pommodori..._He noticed that the exorcist had moved above the room effortlessly, as if there were no scent at all. Abel remembered the priest fondly from his days at the seminary; the then-professor had been the only one to challenge the Crusnik's theological arguments. The way Pommodori moved it was obvious: being an exorcist was his life's work.

The monk lay asleep on the opposite side of the room. He had been restrained, strapped down with iron chains and weights. Brother Desmond looked emaciated, as if some foreign source had been denying him nutrition. His eyes had sunk into his skull, and his skin resembled that of a corpse. If not for the labored, audible breathing noises, Abel would've sworn they were looking at a corpse.

"Father Nightroad, you and Father Wordsworth will directly assist me with the exorcism," the exorcist spoke his directions in a hushed tone, "while Father Leon and Father Tres will assure our protection. Sister Esther..."

She snapped to attention. "Yes?"

"Would you please read the Psalm 91 continuously?"

"I will, Father Pommodori." Her words were strong and opinionated, lacking the need for consultation or support.

The exorcist turned to face the slumbering form of Brother Desmond. Leon and Tres placed themselves at either side of the monk. Tres's emotionless face stared blankly at the scruffy Spanish priest, who returned the sentiments of the Killing Doll with a cold gaze of his own. The safety of everyone in that cold, dank cellar room was entrusted to them. Leon was used to playing protector, as was Tres. _The intuition of that old codger sure is something else…_

Father Pommodori opened his copy of the Roman Ritual, and the Professor, Abel and Esther followed suit. The priests and nun made the Sign of the Cross. The exorcist held the vial of holy water above his head and sprinkled it on everyone in the room. The supine man in the brown robe began to stir, as though he were reacting to each droplet falling.

The exorcist cleared his throat. "God, by your name save me, and by your might defend my cause."

"God, hear my prayer; hearken to the words of my mouth." Abel and Esther joined Father Pommodori in the beginning responses.

"For haughty men have risen up against me, and fierce men seek my life; they set not God before their eyes."

The eyelids on the sleeping monk began to flutter.

"See, God is my helper; the Lord sustains my life," They chanted in unison.

Desmond could feel the presence welling inside of him.

"Turn back evil upon my foes; in your faithfulness destroy them." The exorcist went on.

Again, the four voices came together. "Freely I will offer you sacrifice; I will praise your name, Lord, for its goodness."

The presence was overwhelming him, causing his own body to turn against him. The harder he tried to keep his eyes shut, the harder the presence within him fought to open them. Their battle would not last.

"Because from all distress you have rescued me, and my eyes look down upon my enemies." Father Pommodori's voice remained even and controlled.

The monk could resist no longer. His spirit collapsed as the demonic presence within him assumed control.

"Glory be to the Father."

As the exorcist and his assistants began the next step of the rite, the eyes of the monk shot open. His body began to quiver, then relaxed. The fierce odor engulfing the room grew stronger, a rancid combination of human excrement and rotting meat. The cracked, chapped lips of Brother Desmond rose into a twisted smirk, and he took several long, deep breaths.

Father Pommodori had continued. "Fill your servants with courage to fight manfully against that reprobate dragon, lest he despise those who put their trust in you, and say with Pharaoh of old: "I know not God, nor will I set Israel free. Let your mighty hand cast him out of your servant, Ian Desmond, so he may no longer hold captive this person whom it pleased you to make in your image, and to redeem through your Son; who lives…"

"**Bonus mane, pater."** The dry words seemed to struggle from Desmond's lips.

"Ignore him! We will continue with the ceremony!" The old priest ordered absolutely. "I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, along with all your minions now attacking this servant of God, by the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ, by the descent of the Holy Spirit, by the coming of our Lord for judgment-"

"**Father, Father! Do stop with this foolishness!" **The monk spoke authoritatively, with a voice that seemed mellow but high strung, deep with an otherworldly sense of understanding and dark wisdom. **"It is so nice to finally meet you, the illustrious Giuseppe Pommodori. I've heard so much about you from my brothers and sisters...do you have clue as to how many of us you've made enemies of?"**

"In the name of Christ, our Lord and Savior, who shed His blood so that men can be forgiven, I command you to be silent!" The older priest's voice rose to a forceful shout, but no trace of frustration or emotion came with it.

The demon in monk's habit rolled his eyes. **"There are others in the room who wish me to speak." **He turned to Father Leon. **"Still think I'm a farce, you scruffy sheep molester?"**

"Watch your mouth, you-" Leon started to answer the insult.

"No, Father Leon, don't engage him! You'll only weaken the effect of the prayers of the ceremony." The exorcist warned.

"**Yes, yes. Leon. Listen to the good Father. After all, he's the world's most experienced exorcist. Why, he's a legend! A certifiable legend! Or maybe he's just gone crazy. Just like when you killed your wife and thirty soldiers."**

"Why, I oughtta-"

"**What? Make me thirty one? I dare you!" **The demon cut the scruffy priest short, challenging him to take action.

"Leon, stop!" Abel cried, deviating from his prescribed words. "You're only making it worse!"

"Please stop, Father!" Esther echoed.

Tres's left eye began to take on a reddish glow. "Father Leon, it would be advised that you refrain from angering the entity. We are unaware of it's capabilities."

"Unaware, nothing! This bastard is mine!" Leon charged the chained monk, and wrapped his hands around the skinny neck.

"**Now, Leon," **The demon chuckled, **"Do us all a favour and suppress the killer instinct for a moment. I'm unable to leave until I've helped this soul get what he desires. I admire your tenacity, though. There's a real fire that burns in you...a zealous flame****.****"**

Leon continued to grip the throat of the monk, his squeeze tightening. He was so lost in the heat of his murderous action that he failed to see the smoke rising from beneath him. A wisp of it approached his nose, and it began to make his eyes water. The fire appeared quickly, a hot blue flame that rapidly consumed bottom of the priest's cassock. His grip was instantly released the demon-controlled Desmond. The bloodcurdling scream of the Spanish priest came quickly, and his visage was soon a blur on the floor, as he desperately tried to extinguish the flames.

"Father Leon, remain calm. I will assist you." Tres threw himself on top of the fire consuming his comrade. The android was attempting to use his inorganic body to smother the fire and save his fellow priest from further harm. The flames, acting as almost sentient forms, licked the body of Tres Iquis, causing him to catch ablaze as well.

"Tres!" The Professor started towards the android's priests, direction, but somehow, Father Pommodori beat him to it, shaking the vial of holy water wildly.

"In the name of Jesus Christ, I command the fires of Hell extinguished on these two servants of God! The name of our Lord Jesus Christ demands they be extinguished!"

As quickly as they came, the flames dissipated. The heat from the fire had caused Tres's emergency shutdown response, while Leon's badly burned legs displayed raw, red flesh. The injured priest could barely moan, and his eyelids were clenched in immense pain. The agony of Father Leon was felt by the still standing members of AX.

"**Neat trick, old man. I see you're well-versed in all of my abilities. Two down, three to go!" **The demon fell silent. The foul smell that had permeated the room lifted, and the damp smell of the underground room returned.

"I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, along with all your minions now attacking this servant of God, By the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ, by the descent of the Holy Spirit, by the coming of our Lord for judgment, that you tell me b-"

"Abel." It had been centuries since he heard that voice. The distinct, determined voice belong only to her, only to his...

"Lilith!"

"Abel, my dear sweet Abel, what have you done?" Desmond's lips moved, but the words that came out were in Lilith's voice.

The slender man couldn't stop the replay of his brutal, violent past in his head. Countless bodies strewn in front of him: men, women, and children, all victims to Abel's wrath. He had been one half of the Enemy of the World, intent on the permanent destruction of all life on the planet Earth. A freezing sense of guilt spun icy shivers up Abel's spine, wrenching his lungs with immense sobs. The hot tears spilled from his pale blue eyes, the weight of his memories forcing him to his knees.

_How are you here? You can't be…you can't be…_Abel's thoughts raced together, and he began to babble incoherently, trying to sort them out. _You are in the catacombs, I saw you there, dead, I saw, dead you lay, your head was held up by Cain, that day, I never, I never, I thought…_

The Professor sensed the confusion from the other clergy in the room. After all, he was the only one with any sort of insight into Abel's background. _What I know is that Lilith was very important to Father Nightroad…and that because of the past he has, Abel feels the need to live a life of repentance. But no one else knows that. The little I know barely helps at all._

"Lilith!" He cried in anguish, followed by a pained scream that caused the others' hair to stand on end.

The emotional impact of Father Nightroad's outburst had temporarily caused Esther to lose the ability to speak. She had rarely seen her friend get so emotional, and now, a strange female voice was forcing him to release these intense displays. How badly the nun wanted to rush to the fallen priest's side, comfort and console him, convince him that what he was hearing wasn't real. The idea that she would also be playing into the demon's game came to mind.

_Who is this Lilith? Why does he say her name with such an odd mix of sorrow and reverence? What could he possibly be so upset about? I should know more about him, we've become so close, yet he still remains a mystery. _

"Abel! Come out of it, man!" The Professor's pleas had no bearing on Abel's state of mind. To hear Lilith drowned out every other presence in the room. He was the powerful one of them, so handily subdued. The Professor shuddered in a terror he had done his best to ignore.

"That is not what you have been doing," Lilith's answer returned with an icy undertone, "You allowed Cain to cut my head off. You sat in a crypt with my lifeless body for nine hundred years. Where was your penance then? What exactly were you accomplishing? Weren't you just too immature to stay on the surface and face the consequences for what you had caused?"

"Enough!" Esther finally regained her speech. The demon torturing the sobbing priest was still holding "In name of Jesus Christ, I command you to stop tormenting Father Nightroad! The power of Christ compels you to leave him alone!" The nun rushed to Abel's side, followed by the Professor and Pommodori.

"**Mmm..there is something more delicious here. I can feel you trying to keep it hidden from me."**

"NO! Don't!" The black wings of the Crusnik sprung forth, flailing wildly. The resulting force knocked both the Professor and Father Pommodori backwards, as Esther leapt out of the way. Esther crawled towards the fallen exorcist, trying her best to stay away from the transforming Father Nightroad.

"Crusnik...no...don't. It is...not I...who called you…" Abel struggled to keep the nanomachines under control, but it was no use. They had decided to activate and the appearance of his wings meant they were maxing out at eighty percent. The influence of the demon within Brother Desmond was stimulating his nanomachines into a frenzy - he could feel them, bubbling under his skin with the fervent nature of a hot spring. How the priest wished he could just stop them, be rid of them.

"**So, this is the mighty Crusnik 02? There are countless souls above and below who talk about your visage being the last thing they saw before dying. Before you slaughtered them that is. You have such a mighty, powerful form - how wonderful it would be to have you serve my whims, creature...much better than this weak shell I inhabit now."**

"None shall have us," The nanomachines spoke, "You are our enemy. Our enemies do not dominate us. Our enemies are destroyed."

"**I am a demon, an entity beyond your highest level of activation. I can turn you back into the test tube goo you started out as." **

"You talk too much for our liking. We will end you now!" The Crusnik, activated at eighty percent, rushed towards the chained body of the possessed monk. He let out a loud battle cry, arms raised high above his head.

The demon laughed, and when Abel got close enough, grabbed onto his left wing. The grip was excruciating, and the creature felt the demon sapping its energy as the bones of the wing were crushed. The loud battle cry was replaced by a high-pitched scream of pain and terror. No living creature had ever made the Crusnik feel so much pain. The demon forced the yellowed teeth of Brother Desmond to grin widely, as the blood ran out over his hands.

"**It's much more fun to draw blood from a worthy opponent. Be wary, creature, for you will be mine!"**

"Sister...Esther…" Father Pommodori motioned to the red head nun. "...get me the holy water...please."

The nun picked up the small vial and handed it to the priest, hastily aiding him into a standing position. Even though he had been thrown to the floor, the exorcist's eyes kept the same energy and vitality she had seen when they first met. It was almost as if they were imbued with the desire to cast every evil presence straight to hell.

"In the name of God the Father, His Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit, I command you, unclean spirit, that you tell me your name, and the day and hour of your departure. I command you to obey me to the letter, I who am a minister of God despite my unworthiness, that you shall not be emboldened to cause further harm to this creature of God, or bystanders, or possessions." A rapid spray of holy water accompanied Pommodori's pointed orders.

For the first time during the rite, the demon squirmed. He then let forth a high pitched audible squeal and released the wing of the Crusnik. The exorcist took this chance to get close to the chained man, laying his hands on the possessed monk's head.

"They shall lay their hands on the sick and all will be well with them. I command you, in the name of Christ, reveal to me your name!"

Brother Desmond's form continued to thrash under the priest's touch, and his lips were clenched shut. He was trying harder than anything to avoid revealing his name to the exorcist, and he intended to be victorious in the struggle. With the desperation of a captured man, he swung his fist into the old priest's stomach, causing him to break into a severe coughing fit.

Assaulting the old priest was not enough to repeal his command. The bleeding tongue of Brother Desmond appeared, circling wildly around his cracked lips, making every motion possible to prevent speech.

"**AHHHHHH!" **An unwordly scream came from Desmond's mouth. **"I AM...I AM….THE GRAND MARQUIS! I AM..ANDRAS!" **With that declaration, he became completely motionless and silent.

Esther watched as Father Pommodori doubled over, and glanced at the bleeding Crusnik and the burned Tres and Leon. Her heart was still racing, and the eerie, prickly feeling across her scalp refused to subside, even with though the demon had ceased.

With great effort, the Professor rose, and scrambled to his communicator.

"Sister Kate? We need an emergency medical team down here, now!" The nun heard the Professor yelling hurriedly. "There are five injured, I repeat, five injured. We need the team IMMEDIATELY!"

"We're coming now, William, just hang on," came the calm reply from Sister Kate.

"Are you all right?" He asked direction his question towards Esther.

She was unresponsive. The gore, the blood - it reminded her of previous, faraway battles. This time, the fight had happened here.

Here. The Vatican had been the only place the young sister considered herself safe. The AX, the Inquisition...they stood ready at a moment's notice to bring down any violence that might have appeared. But here, one man had shown them all how powerless they were. Esther had been avoiding truly taking the entire scene, but knew she had to force herself to look.

The exposed flesh of Father Leon was still very raw and bloody, as it trickled into a growing puddle of blood on the floor. His groans, once obvious, were now barely audible. If the medical team did not arrive soon, Leon would be nothing more than a host to whatever infectious bacteria might be thriving around him.

"Easy now…" Father Pommodori managed, between coughs, to kneel beside the Spaniard. Stripping his white surplice, he began to tightly wind it around Leon's legs.

Tres remained still, like a child's dropped toy. He had noticeable damage to his lower limbs, so much so that his artificial flesh had burned off. Instead of exposing bones, however, the intricate framework and circuits of the robotic priest were revealed. The Professor had already hobbled to Tres, and was fiddling with circuits and wires without hesitation.

Finally, her eyes fell upon him. The matted silver hair, colored with a deep reddish tint from the blood that had sprayed from his wings. His face, still damp and stained from the tears Abel had let loose so freely. His body lay twisted, his arms and legs sprawled to resemble a crushed insect more than her precious and dear friend.

Sister Esther cautiously approached Abel's slumped form. Kneeling down, she saw that he had regained his human form. The nun took the priest's head in her lap and gently began running her fingers through his hair. _He's breathing...thank God, he's breathing! _Leaning forward, Esther planted a soft kiss on the priest's forehead, and waited for help to arrive.


	13. Fragole Era Non Tentazione

**Fragole Era Non Tentazione  
By: James Austin Valiant**

Desmond's heavy eyelids finally yielded to his command to be opened. The dim light of a dusky city night fought against the haze of dark energy to fall on the floor beside him. As the orange and red hues swirled before him, he could feel the emptiness surrounding him.

Forcing his head to turn, he could barely make out the stone walls of the cell; but he didn't need to see it to know what the demon had done. The foreboding feeling of fear and anguish rose up in the smell of blood and it made his eyes water.

"This is…" he whispered faintly, taking in a ragged breath, "gruesome. Did I, was I the one who—?"

He picked his head back up, facing it instead towards the wall. Having to witness another moment of the macabre aftermath was just too much. A tear escaped him, washing away some of the dust from his cheek.

"This is not," another ragged breath was drawn in, "what I wanted."

A hissing breeze arose from the floor and the dark haze in the room suddenly shifted, completely blocking out the vermilion light from the window. Engulfed in the smoky shadow, the walls of the cell seemed to fade away and there was endless darkness.

"**Oh, isn't it?" **Spoke a deep gravelly voice, it echoed in his ears, in his mind. **"I was quite sure this was exactly what you asked for."**

"No, not at all." Desmond moaned as more tears emerged.

"**You wanted to be powerful; I gave you power. You wanted to be influential; now you are the head of your Order. Just what part of this dissatisfies you?"**

"I never meant to hurt anyone!" The shackles rattled as Desmond clenched his fists.

"**Sure, that's what they all say," **the echo of a husky breath filled the room, **"But there are consequences, and you gave your directives vaguely."**

"Vague? You nearly killed His Holiness! I never asked you to do such a thing!" Desmond's expression changed from sorrow to anger. That incident had never been a part of his plan. Even if the thought had ever crossed his mind, he was sure he had never actually intended harm to befall the young Pope.

"**He was in the way and so I removed him from your path." **Another guttural breath echoed through the vast expanse.** "Fear, in your world, is equal to respect. Now that we have broken down the man in charge of this mess, you have surpassed his authority."**

"It was unnecessary! Cardinal Caterina finally responded. I would've been able to negotiate with her myself." Desmond struggled against the weight of the chains and straps, figuratively trying to escape from the entire predicament.

"**Merely conversing with a single Cardinal will not gain you the riches you seek. If you thought yourself capable then you would not have summoned me!"**

"I wanted the people to listen to me—"

"**Well they are listening now. All eyes are on you, Desmond; every last altar boy in this vile place is cowering. You have the attention of the populace; now all you have left to do is affirm yourself as their new leader." **The voice of the demon rose in intensity the longer he continued.

"No, it's too late now. The fathers will return and you will be cast out. I've already lost my integrity." Desmond relaxed, defeating his own efforts to escape.

"**Once a weak soul, always a weak soul," **Andras muttered in a low tone.** "You can still attain your every desire, but I cannot serve you if you have already resigned yourself."**

Desmond's face twisted, his mind trying to compare all the possibilities. No matter which road he took, they all seemed to end in miserable failure. If he let Andras continue his work he might escape prosecution but likely this would be at the cost of the lives of everyone who stood in his path. How many people would be killed? How much worthless destruction would it entail to attain the position in charge of all Christendom, a position Desmond had not even wanted originally.

On the other hand, if he allowed Andras to be cast out now, he might just appear pitiful enough to be forgotten. One weak enough to invoke a demon would soon be erased from the history books.

"**Make your choice before they return." **A long hiss finished his statement.

The howling wind blew up from the floor once more and the endless dark receded; he was back in the dingy cell, alone to contemplate the decision. Without the voice of Andras in his ear, perhaps he could see the right path. The orange light of sunset had faded to a gloomy blue and the comfort of the moonlight was naught. He was running out of time.

* * *

Leather bound stacks occupied every corner of the table. The volumes were covered in thick layers of dust, and the dank smell of ripe paper greeted those who browsed them. They differed only in content, each keeping documents integral to identifying the going-ons of the Vatican's past seven hundred years. Some were merely friendly letters, while others were more serious. Declarations of war, encyclicals, even serious, restricted papal bulls and ex cathedra declarations could be found.

The Professor shivered. The room temperature itself was carefully monitored, climate control helped to preserve the age old documents as he rifled through them. Father Tres was assisting the search, but only in diagnostic mode; the Professor had wanted to be sure of Tres' state before he moved onto more intricate repairs.

His eyes scanned the pages, as he intently searched the words. The lack of organization among the tomes was not his only gripe. _The differences in handwriting is so annoying! How am I to know if that is a four or a nine? What is with this dating system? One minute, its standard and the next, they are using the old calendar. Is it too much to ask for consistency?_

The priest sighed, closing yet another tome in a defeated manner.

"What's the use?" He questioned, directing it to no one in particular.

"Research complete?" Tres' dialogue was limited in diagnostic mode, unable to complete full sentences.

"I don't even know what I'm looking for! Some intuition I had told me to come down here, to pour over these old writings. Yet, no matter what I look at, nothing shows any reference to the Order of Saint Sebastian or this…" He paused, searching for the right word.

"Demon." Finished an older, more weary voice.

"Father Pommodori!" The Professor leapt to his feet, surprised to see the bald visage of the old exorcist.

"The Holy Spirit has helped to guide you here, Father Wordsworth," Pommodori acknowledged, "there is an answer here of great importance to us. Everything written about the Order of Saint Sebastian has been heavily revised and updated throughout the centuries. Most see only bias, while some see irrelevance. What we need to see is the historical fact."

The Professor smiled warmly. _So he searches for the fact, too! _

"What have you found so far?"

The smile fell sharply. "Not too much that's of any use. There's some references to the Order in a few of these writings, but nothing more than an offhand comment. I'm trying to find the official bull that consecrated the Order."

"You think there is a clue there?"

"I can't say, because I don't quite know what it is I'm looking for…" The Professor trailed off, grabbing another volume from the top of his stack.

"The story of the founding of the Order has long bothered me," the exorcist offered, "Sebastian Ortalanni, a Capuchin friar, takes leave from his monastery. He and few of his close conceive a small, cloistered order, dedicated to separation and rigorous prayer to save mankind. An honorable notion. It all makes sense, up to their one hundred and fiftieth year. The small offshoot goes public, due to the sudden spark of charismatic healing. How does a cloistered section of monks suddenly become healers?"

The Professor nodded, his eyes fixed on the pages in front of him. "That's a good point. Oddly enough, it was that reputation of being extraordinary healers that lead to the immense gain of the group in riches and power. Why, when it came time for Brother Sebastian's canonization, the Vatican documents a record sixty-three miracles attributed to him."

Pommodori raised an eyebrow. "That's a pretty specific number, Father."

"I know," the Professor flipped the book around, "this is the official documentation of Saint Sebastian's canonization, authorized by His Holiness, Clement XV. The waiting period was significantly shortened as well. Sebastian was canonized in a mere six years following his death."

"What does that tell us?"

The Professor was momentarily silent, rubbing his eyes as he considered an answer.

"...this tells us that there was a power within the small cloister to influence them to perform healing…"

Pommodori tapped his chin. "I've seen demons do miraculous works, disguising themselves at first as benevolent helpers. It's one of the many ways they gain the trust of the willing."

"The willing?"

The exorcist nodded. "Only those who desire the intervention of a demon can receive it. There had to have been a willing presence within the early Order for it to have been viable. When was that first miracle?"

The Professor squinted at the scrawled, faded penmanship. "It looks like February third. From what I can make out of the example, a member of the small cloister was cured of an epileptic condition. A man called Andrew de Got of Avignon."

"Ah-ha" A sharp cry arose from Pommodori.

"What's the significance?" queried the Albionian.

"I'm not sure there is one, truthfully. I can't stand here and lie to you, as much as I want to. The Order of Saint Sebastian has done many great things, and truthfully, they are one of the last remaining pillars of the old Church. But the deviation that this caused, and the demonic attention that this organization has attracted - well, it seems to have been around since the inception."

The Professor flipped through a few more pages, finding little more than fleeting references to the Order. "So, you're telling me that that...thing...has been hanging around the Order of Saint Sebastian since the beginning? How is it that a demon can even affect the members of the Church?"

Pommodori exhaled in frustration. "Now that, I cannot answer. I have seen far too many men of God tempted by indecency and the wickedness of the devil than I care to admit. The rules are very relaxed now; we can all marry, conduct relationships, even have children! Perhaps its easier to infiltrate us now, that we've broken so far from the original path."

The old exorcist shook his head. Now was not the time to pontificate. "But now's not the time to worry about that. The important thing is this: we have a date that the demon began influencing the Order. We have his name."

"So our next step is…?"

"We need to reconfigure the team. I fear we rushed in headfirst, without enough preparation. This time around, I will celebrate Mass for us, and we shall all make a confession. Entering the rite with clean slates and in full communion with the Lord will make us that much more effective."

The Professor nodded. "This demon...Andras? He claims to be the Great Marquis of Hell."

"Demons claim to much, but in actuality, they have little authority when compared to their master," Pommodori's eyes took on a solemn tone, "We can speculate on his titles all we want, but it has no bearing. We're not here to honor him. We are here to cast him out, to free the soul of Brother Desmond."

"Indeed," The Professor had returned to flipping pages, "but why Desmond? Do you think we'll ever know?"

"I'm not sure," Pommodori responded hesitantly. "We may never know. Andras will lie, of course, and Desmond may be too damaged psychologically to be able to separate his private truths from the demon's fictions."

The Albionian priest shut the book, and leaned back in his chair. "I think we've come upon enough information now. Shall we head to the infirmary? I haven't seen anyone but you and Tres since the medical team cleared us out."

The two men agreed in silence, and the three priests exited the archives.

* * *

"Argh!"

The sharp cry from the Spanish priest was followed by a string of swearing in his native tongue. New skin had to be grafted onto Leon's legs, and since he was now fully conscious, the pain registered to a severe degree. The medical staff required that his bandages be changed every half hour, with a fresh application of antiseptic. The peeling back of layers, the reapplication fresh ones...even just the air hitting the exposed flesh pained him more than anything he had ever felt.

"For the love of God! GAAAHHH!" Leon stifled the scream as much as he could. "It hurts, it really freakin' hurt and all you damned lab coats can do is poke and prod at it!"

"Its necessary, Father Leon, or else the skin grafts won't take and you'll never heal!" The doctor insisted, trying his best to inform the priest.

"Necessary my ass! Don't you need to just leave these things alone?" He cried.

"No! We have to attend to it! And we will hold you down!" The doctor yelled, and two of the beefy looking orderlies affirmed this declaration.

Leon snarled. "I could take them."

The doctor threw his hands up in frustration. "What do you want me to do, Father? Let you get infected? Fine then, I'll start filling out your death certificate…"

Father Leon flared. "How dare you even suggest that! I'll never succumb to a mere infection. Get back over here and change these dressings!"

The nurses who caught the doctor's face had to quickly turn away to keep from smirking; after all, they had been dealing with Father Leon for so long it was nice to be on the team with someone that would stand up to the scruffy clergyman.

Esther hadn't moved from her chair since they brought Abel in. The hard seat had been her home for throughout the night, and she had somehow managed to sleep on it. She rubbed the back of her neck. _Maybe that wasn't such a wise idea.._.She turned her attention to Abel, who lay on the hospital bed in front of her.

He was hooked up to a variety of monitors, but all the doctors could read from them was that he was in a deep sleep. She wasn't too surprised; Father Nightroad barely got a chance to sleep. His falling asleep in the carriage on the way to retrieve Desmond was testament to that. _He looked so sweet, dozing in that carriage...for someone who can be so loud and obnoxious, Father Nightroad really is a lovely sleeper._

The slumber of the priest did not appear much different from her memory. He healed quickly, but the supernatural origins of these wounds had caused them to bleed longer than normal. As a result, the medical team who had arrived on the scene had bandaged him fully. The battery of tests had shown him to be otherwise fine.

Esther leaned over her friend, and her eyes traced the relaxed lines of his face. _He is usually so peaceful looking, but here…_ Abel's pleasant face was fiercely contorted, a hard frown etched on his face, with his eyes shut tightly. It was an expression that combined disgust and fear, and it made the young nun uneasy. She had helped the nurses as best she could manage, and noticed that the set look on Father Nightroad's face caused them to ask for more of Esther's help than they usually would.

He shivered. The redhead's small hand caressed the infirmary's sheet. _This is barely more than a piece of onion skin paper! _She reached to the back of her chair, grabbing his long, black overcoat. Caterina's novice nun had retrieved some of the AX's teams belongings, and in her distraught state, Esther had immediately taken the priest's outwear for herself. It was warm, and even though it had been laundered, smelled like a strange mix between frankincense and sweat. She gently draped the thick coat over his form.

_Are you going to wake up, Father? I feel like its been so long since I've seen your eyes..._Esther smoothed the wrinkles out of the priest's makeshift blanket. _You were in so much pain, but none of us could come near you. I've seen you...with the manifestation of your sins before. At those times, all those times, you were so powerful. But yesterday, yesterday you fell. I saw your other form fall._

The nun crossed her arms in thought. _The Crusnik, I've never seen it attacked. Whenever the other side of Father Nightroad rears its head, the fight almost always turns one sided. But the way Brother Desmond- _Esther shook her head. The mere thought of her priest friend hurt was enough to give her shivers of her own.

One of the nurses, a dark woman in a white habit, came over to inspect Father Nightroad's monitors. She took notes of the readings on her clipboard, and adjusted the tubes feeding nutrients directly to his bloodstream.

"What are you giving him?" Esther's voice rose up, meekly.

"Potassium chloride. We're making sure he doesn't get dehydrated." The nurse calmly explained.

"Oh. Are you sure he's just sleeping?"

The other woman re-checked her chart. "That's what the vitals say. He probably just needs his rest. You are very lucky, Sister, especially considering the damage done to Father Leon."

Esther realized she hadn't heard the other priest in a while. "How is Father Leon? Did he get through surgery okay?"

The nurse nodded. "He'll be okay. He may have to wear a special set of leggings to protect the grafts from infection, and it will be months before Father is able to walk comfortably. It was a miracle his muscle tissue wasn't more seriously injured, considering the heat required to do that kind of damage."

She realized that the nun had stopped paying attention. The redhead's gaze was fixed on the priest's gnarled expression.

"Sister Esther?"

"Hrm?" The nun's pale blue gaze turned back to the nurse. "I'm sorry...what was your name again?"

"Martha. Sister Martha Gerard."

"I'm sorry, Sister Martha, I'm just concerned about Father Nightroad…" Esther trailed off, smoothing the priest's jacket absentmindedly.

The other nun nodded. "Of course you are, Sister Esther, but we are all concerned about you. You've been here all night long. Have you been evaluated since yesterday?"

"I haven't." Came the reply. "Can it wait until later?"

Martha opened her mouth to protest, but realized arguing with the other nun was pointless in this situation. Anyone in the state Esther was in deserved to be allowed to comfort her friend in peace.

"Of course it can," The nurse nun relented. She moved closer to Esther, and gently leaned over. "Try talking to him. You might help to wake him up."

Esther smiled weakly. "Thank you. I'll give it try."

As Sister Martha walked to the next occupied bed, Esther let lose a long, pained sigh. Her advice was heartfelt, but the redhead had no idea what to say. Abel was her partner, and had helped to train her in handling a gun and hand-to-hand combat. To see him so effortlessly bested...crawling to him, placing his fallen head in her lap. _Helpless and defeated...what do I say to that?_

"Hello, Father."

_Great start. _She thought, admonishing herself.

"The nurse just told me you were okay. They've been telling me that right along, and yet, you keep sleeping. I hope you are just getting better…" She trailed off, taking a moment to think. "I've gotten pretty used to having you around, Father. You've helped me so much, and I always felt we watched out for each other. I'm sorry I couldn't...I couldn't help you...I was just so scared…"

Her words ended again, and a stark silence followed. Esther fumbled for her rosary, and began to pray the first decade.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…"

The contorted face of Father Nightroad started to soften as Esther proceeded with her rosary. His eyelids fluttered, and slowly began to open. Abel's lips parted, and he took in a sharp inhale, gasping himself awake. His sleepy, cerulean eyes moved to see the young nun at his side, hunched over her prayers beads, fingers meticulously moving from one to the next.

"...mother of God, pray for us sinners…"

Abel simpered, realizing Esther was praying for him, and decided to join her.

"...now, and at the hour of our death. Amen."

Esther looked up, and witnessed Abel, awake and smiling at her. She returned his smile, then, unable to restrain herself, jumped and wrapped her arms around the priest's neck. He lurched forward, surprised at first, but returned the hug with long, slender arms.

"You're okay, Father! You're okay! I was so worried about you, you just kept sleeping and they were telling me you were fine, but I just couldn't believe them."

"I'm happy to see you too, Esther." Abel managed. "Were you hurt?"

"No, not at all." The young nun realized her exuberance, and pulled back from the priest. Easing into her seat at the side of his bed, Sister Esther felt the burning blush creeping up her cheeks.

"I'm glad," Abel sighed in relief, pulling himself into an upright position. "It was pretty intense back there. Where is Leon? Tres?"

"Father Leon suffered third degree burns, and so did Tres. The Professor has been running Tres in diagnostic mode, making sure everything is okay before he starts more complicated repairs. Professor and I are fine, but Desmond did manage to batter Father Pommodori."

Abel's eyes widened. "Is Pommodori doing well?"

"A sharp punch to the stomach is all it was. Desmond knocked the wind right out of him. He's fine now, he left a while ago...I think."

"You think?"

Esther rubbed her shoulder and half-yawned. "I've been here since last night and while your coat kept me warm, this hard seat wasn't exactly the bed in my quarters."

"Why did you stay?"

"I was watching over you."

They exchanged soft smiles, and Abel found that familiar sense of compassion he and his partner shared. They had come to depend on each other, even if time passed where they wouldn't see each other. _Maybe it's time to tell her...but what would I say? Would she even want to hear it? _Abel shook his head. It was the circumstances of the attack and his weakened state that was affecting his thoughts. _It would be foolish to say anything. _

"Thank you, Miss Esther." He licked his lips. "Is there anything to drink?"

"Of course, of course." _'I was watching over you'? Stupid, stupid, stupid! Dammit, Esther, that was even lamer than 'I care about you'. _"Tea with thirteen sugars?"

"No," Abel was surprised by his disagreement. "Juice. Orange juice."

"I don't think they have any…" Esther surmised, scanning the infirmary.

"Just water then. Ice water. Something to wet my tongue."

The nun grabbed the pink pitcher at the bedside table, and poured the refreshing liquid into a small paper cup. Plopping in a straw, she handed it to the priest, who readily accepted it.

"Mmm," Abel savored the cool water, swishing it around his mouth before swallowing. The refreshment was enough to complete the steadying of his nerves.

"Father?"

"Yes?" Abel noticed the trepidation in the nun's voice.

"Who is Lilith?"

The soft smile Abel had been wearing was plastered in an uncomfortable freeze. His teeth pressed together, and while he kept his eye contact with Esther, she could tell his stare was going right through her. Still, Esther did not regret asking the question; she had the right to know.

"Please, Father...I just want to be able to help you. Don't you remember what Father Pommodori said? The more we taunt the demon, the more he'll lie to distract us. So if we can clear up what was fact and what wasn't…"

"Esther, enough." Abel's voice took on a steely frost. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Whatever happened made you upset enough to cripple you to tears. It's not something we should ignore." Esther stated, the edge in her voice apparent.

"No. As a senior member of the AX, I am allowed my privacy."

"What...what are you saying? Since when do you go and pull rank on me? You collapsed, in a heap of tears and regret, crying enough to fill four thousand fountains, and you expect me to just not want to talk about it? I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience, but when my friends are attacked, I intend to do all I can to keep them safe. Now who is Lilith?"

Abel swung himself to the side of the bed, and unsteadily rose to feet. His massive, slender frame bent at the waist, towering over her with a bright, fake smile. Esther felt a bit uncomfortable in his shadow, but refused to break his gaze. The normal cerulean calm that had occupied his orbs just moments ago had been replaced by a bright, cheery air.

"Come on, they'll be plenty of time for that when you're older. Let's go see if we can't scare up something sweet, eh?"

Esther folded her arms, refusing to move from the chair. "I want some answers."

"Maybe something strawberry? You like strawberry, don't you, Miss Esther?"

_I love strawberry. That does not get you off the hook. _"Who is she? An old friend? Your daughter?"

"Mmm, you know, I might like caramel...caramel and toffee! Something to really stick in my teeth!" Abel declared excitedly, closing his eyes and swaying in a dreamy motion.

"Father this is serious!"

"Look, Esther," He sat down back down on the bed, then comfortably reclined. "There are so many stories and people I would love to tell you about, but we have a demon on our hands here. When there's time, and it's right, I'll share what I can with you. I promise."

"Fine." Esther's voice was one of shaky defeat; she sensed the genuine feeling behind his statement. "But you do realize you're going to have to tell me someday."

"What are you doing to me? Anais?" The clattering of a bedside table being knocked over crashed nearby them, and a familiar voice floated through the thin curtains separating the beds in the infirmary. The patient's sudden coming to had scared Sister Martha to the foot of his bed. Esther hurried to her side, and Abel ripped open the curtain that served as boundary between his bed and the next.

"Hugue?"


	14. Prete Mistero

**Prete Mistero  
By: James Austin Valiant**

The sight of his long, blonde hair was enough to startle Esther and Abel at first. They hadn't seen Hugue since...well, the list of people who had actually met the mysterious priest was only so long, and actually encountering him was a special occasion in itself. His torso was uncovered, showing fresh scars crisscrossing old ones. The expression on his face remained stoic and unmoved.

"Is that really you, Hugue?" Abel's question was rather redundant.

"Yes."

The silver haired priest was surprised to get even a one word answer out of Hugue, which prompted him to continue on.

"Last we heard, you were investigating reports of a witch in Prague...although that might have been a few months ago. How is it no one alerted us to your presence? Is that what brought you here?"

The priest's silence was characteristic, and Esther knew that no matter what questions they asked, it was bound to continue. She turned her attention to Sister Martha, knowing it would be easier to get answers from the nurse.

"How are Father Hugue's injuries?"

Sister Martha shrugged and sighed in a defeated manner. "He came in here two days ago, not giving us his name or any other personal information. He just said he was a priest and needed us to stitch up a large gash on his back. We took a look at some of the other cuts on his chest and arms and it turns out he super glued them shut."

"Super glued? Really?" Abel stuck his tongue out in disgust. "In what sort of remarkable, on the road, sanitary conditions could you have done that in, Hugue?"

The blonde clergyman once again answered with silence. He arose sharply from the infirmary bed, and pulled on his collared black shirt and thick overcoat.

"Where are you going, Father?" Abel's question was more pointed now, insisting Hugue give him an answer.

"I need to see someone." A fluttering of an overcoat and clicking boot steps accompanied the exit of Father Hugue de Watteau.

Sister Martha longingly stared after the departing priest. His reclusive ways and silent stares had captivated her for the past few days, stirring a schoolgirl crush in her. Hugue's lean body and bad boy image didn't hurt either; she had found herself checking in on the priest more often than she would a regular patient, even if he barely acknowledged her.

"What do you make of that, Father?" Esther leaned back on Abel Nightroad's bed.

"Typical Hugue." Abel picked up his water and began sucking on the straw, causing every last drop to vanish into his mouth.

"Who do you think he went to see?" Esther put a contemplative finger to her chin and kept her gaze directed at the door. She had only met the secretive priest once, and it wasn't enough to get a good reading of him. Hugue didn't strike her as the type to report to authority, so maybe he was going to get something to eat or go to confession.

"I'm not sure," Abel returned to his own bed. "I've known Hugue a long time, and I could barely fill a half a page with what I know about the man. But one thing I am certain of: once Hugue believes he has healed, he'll be back on another mission. After all, he didn't get all those scars from taking lengthy sabbaticals."

Sister Martha bit her lip, her thoughts of a brave warrior making her head swoon. She had tried, for the days Father Hugue had been in her care, to draw any sort of information out of him. His incredulous attitude was difficult to swallow, but his mystery and flowing blond hair were more than enough to keep her intrigued.

"Maybe he's gone to get new marching orders?" The nurse nun suggested, trying her best to sound nonchalant and interested in her filling out Hugue's discharge forms.

"You might be onto something there, Sister," Abel had been absentmindedly chewing on his plastic straw, carefully considering Sister Martha's suggestion. "Even though Hugue has a massive problem with following rules and authority, he'll still need to visit the Duchess of Milan."

Esther refilled her friend's cup and pulled the mutilated straw from his mouth. "One, that actually makes sense. Two, how many times have I told you not to chew on these things? You're going to ruin your teeth, or get a piece of straw stuck in your gums, or worst, choke on it going down your throat! Seriously, Father."

"Well, I'm in the right place for it. You know, if something like that were to happen…" The Crusnik priest stated cautiously.

"Father Nightroad!"

"Fine, fine…" Abel pressed the plastic cup to his lips, sipping the water slowly. "Well, I hope you took a good, long look at Hugue. It might be the last time we see him for eight to ten months."

_I sure did get a good long look..._Sister Martha shook her head, snapping herself out of her school girl crush, _Come on, you! Stay on track! _"Sister Esther, I still need to take your vitals. We just want to make sure that everything's normal before we discharge you."

"What about me? Should I be free to go soon?" Abel's voice sounded hopeful, as he started pulling on his long overcoat.

"I'll have to get the doctor's approval, since your injuries were more severe, but from what I've seen, you should be good as well." Sister Martha pulled the priest's chart from the edge of his footboard, and went off in search of a blood pressure monitor.

Sister Esther took a seat on Father Nightroad's bed. She tentatively traced a circle with her foot on the floor, thinking quietly to herself. The priest's reluctance to share his past weighed heavily on her mind, and while she knew each member of AX had pasts that weren't always kosher, she had hoped she'd gained enough of his trust. _But I suppose I haven't...maybe he still sees me as a little girl. But I'm not a child anymore, I have enough security clearance to access personnel files if I wanted to...it would just mean more if he told me himself._

"Dinar for your thoughts, Esther?" Abel looked up for tying his boots.

"I don't know, Father, I don't want to bankrupt you." She smiled.

"Hardy har har," He chuckled sarcastically, before straightening the cuffs on his pants. "Seriously, though. Is something on your mind?

_Yeah. You. _"No, no, I'm fine. Just trying to process it all, you know?" The redhead lied, hoping her partner wouldn't ask for more elaboration.

"I know what you mean," He sympathized, removing his black hair ribbon and brushing his silvery locks back with both his hands, "it's hard to think we're looking into the face of evil incarnate. But I have faith in the Church and Father Pommodori to know that we're going along on the right path. I have faith in the entire AX that we'll overcome this hurdle. Leon, Kate, Professor, you...I have confidence we will succeed."

Esther returned to tracing her foot on the floor. _Confidence in my success, but not confidence enough to trust me? That doesn't make much sense, does it, Father? What about being on my side, what about being my friend and partner? Stop it, Esther. _She stopped tracing her foot and rose to her feet. _This is silly. This isn't like me at all. I'm just going to keep on doing what I'm doing. I'm not going to care what he thinks._

Abel reached for a hairbrush and began running the bristles through his long, silver hair. He was careful as he got to the end, doing his best not to scrape the hairs as much as he was to smooth through the tangles. It was slightly matted for having been sleeping for so long, and he made a mental note to grab a shower after the doctor evaluated him. He put down his hair brush, and felt around for his hair tie.

"Esther, have you seen my…" Before he could finish his sentence, Esther had bent over and reached under the bed, grabbing the ribbon he had unknowingly knocked off the bed.

"Relax. I'll take care of it." The nun reached up ad collected the priest's hair in the simple ponytail, and delicately tied a light, loose square knot into the long, silver strands. _Unfortunately, Father..._she thought to herself, _I do care what you think._

_

* * *

_

The Iron Lady of the Vatican, or so she had been dubbed, was not feeling as strong as her moniker indicated. Her brother Alessandro was still unconscious, showing minimal signs of improvement, and her other brother Francesco, while being uncharacteristically kind and apologetic, was still trying his best to maneuver to a lead position of power in the Church. Rumors were even abounding that the Cardinal was trying to prove that the Pope was in a coma, to initiate a convening of the College and elect a new Pope, with the forerunning papabili being Francesco de Medici.

_He'll never get there, not as long as I remain the Dean of the College..._Caterina rubbed her temples. Her long, blonde curls were frizzy from lack of attention and she couldn't remember the last time she changed cassocks. Besides the occasional meeting and editing official press releases regarding the Pope's whereabouts ('spending the summer on a prayer retreat with the Patriarch of Moscow'), Caterina hadn't left the Pope's side.

A knock resounded throughout Cardinal Sforza's empty office, and she glanced at her planner. _Hmm, there's no appointment scheduled for today…_ "Enter!"

The heavy oak door swung open, and the blond, slender form of Father Hugue strode into the room. He shut the door behind him, and moved with such grace, he seemed to float to her desk.

"Sword Dancer. This is quite the surprise. Am I to understand your mission in Prague is complete?"

A thin manilla file folder was tossed onto her desk as an answer. She picked it up and began to flip through it.

"Hugue, you need to be more elaborate on these reports. Under 'Resolution', you can't just put 'Crisis averted'. You need to detail _how_ you averted it."

"The problem was resolved. What is my next assignment?" Hugue queried. He never did care to answer questions directly, because one would inevitably lead to another, and if he loathed anything, it was needless conversation.

Caterina sighed, and pulled out her bottom desk drawer. Looking through her AX files, she pulled out the blue folder labeled 'de Watteau, Hugue.' She opened it up to the third page, and ran her finger down to the bottom.

"Father Hugue, this page here says that you were in Stockholm two and a half years ago with Father Pommodori, but it doesn't say why." While she didn't phrase her statement as a question, her open ended, upward inflection indicated she wanted an answer.

Hugue stayed silent, the only sounded coming was from the cracking of his knuckles.

"Hugue. What were you in Stockholm for?"

"Ask Father Pommodori." The Belgian grimaced. He had no idea what exactly Caterina was trying to get it, and not knowing angered him on the inside.

The Cardinal met Hugue's cold gaze, doing her best to match. The priest maintained an iron will, his eyes reflecting his aversion to openness and want of extreme secrecy. She returned it, but instead of keeping it metallic, showed the hurt and pain her brother's injuries had caused her. Caterina saw him blink, and swore his gaze had softened a bit.

"We performed a ceremony. I served as his second." Came the eventual answer, with an extra emphasis on the word 'ceremony', as though to indicate what Caterina already knew.

Caterina glanced back at the sheet. "And what was the nature of Olof Palme's involvement?"

Hugue cleared his throat. "He was the man we freed."

"Successfully?"

"I suppose."

Caterina sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. _Getting a straight answer out of Hugue is harder than getting Abel to put eleven sugars in his tea…_

"Father Pommodori is currently performing the same ceremony here, in the basement of St. John's. I need you to assist him like you did before."

Hugue's eyes widened, and she saw the one emotion he had never expressed before: fear.

"Why there?" Hugue leaned over on Caterina's desk, his normally mellow voice now a harsh whisper.

"It was Pommodori's choice. I've left everything up to him and the rest of the AX."

Hugue closed his eyes, doing his best to remember the exorcism at Stockholm. The older priest was a sage, well put-together man whose had never given him much cause to doubt. The Stockholm 'ceremony' had a less than desirable outcome, but the chief exorcist had shown considerable strength, and Hugue had actually accompanied Pommodori on several more exorcisms, though he had neglected to make formal reports on them. _I probably never will...there are some events that should never be recorded, not even in brevity._

"I will assist him."

Caterina nodded, looking back down as she re-filed Hugue's folder. "I am told Father Pommodori has gathered the other members of AX to hold Mass in the Pope's private chapel. You have your orders."

She looked up to meet his gaze, but Father Hugue had already left the office.

* * *

"...And every creature which is in heaven, and on the earth, and under the earth, and such as are in the sea, and all that are in them, heard I saying, Blessing, and honor, and glory, and power, be unto him that sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb for ever and ever. And the four beasts said, Amen. And the four and twenty elders fell down and worshipped him that liveth for ever and ever." The Professor finished the second reading. "This is the Word of the Lord."

"Thanks be to God" repeated Abel, Esther and Tres.

Pommodori had approached the members of AX, telling them that the best way to ensure focus and holiness during the next round of exorcism would be to celebrate the Eucharist. Deep down inside, the old priest was chastising himself. He and the Professor had found the origin point of Andras's influence on the Order, but it could indeed be possible that Brother Desmond was a victim of perfect possession.

The old priest recalled a tome by a twentieth century exorcist named Father Malachi Martin. In the work, Father Martin had outlined the different stages and types of possession. Perfect possession was when the bond between the demon and the individual was mutually agreed upon and shared. From perfect possession, there was no deliverance, no salvation. The only way to free Desmond would be death, and Pommodori hadn't seen an exorcism to a fatal conclusion in more than two and a half years.

As Pommodori rose to, he began singing the Hallelujah, the preliminary antiphon often recited before the reading of Gospel. For some reason, the smell of the sacristy in Stockholm entered his nostrils, the pungent smell of burning rubber triggering the memory.

"_Sabnock, by the Power of Christ, I order to you leave this Servant of God!" His voice was much younger, stronger then. The bottom of his cassock was stained from the immense amount of vomit the possessed had produced, and his hands shook with fervor and fear._

"_**Don't be ridiculous, priest," **__Sabnock had answered. __**"I'm not going anywhere. As a matter of fact, I'm quite content here. Olof and I have bonded so very, very much. There isn't any chance of me leaving."**_

"_Lord, bring Your mercy upon Your servant, that I may bring peace to the soul of Olof Palme, that he may find refuge in Your mighty hands…" Pommodori continued, as his second, Father Hugue, anointed the possessed with holy oil. "Bring about the leave of this creature, rejected by You, for his pride and vanity, that he stood against Your throne, warred with Your angels-"_

"_**Enough, you fool!" **__The demon spat.__** "This is all getting quite silly. I've enjoyed your company, priests, but you bore me." **__The body of Olof Palme closed his eyes, and reopened them, a cadre of maggots spilling out of his sockets. __**"Don't you see? Isn't it miraculous? I am the vessel for the Morningstar, he who is all powerful! He who is the renegade!"**_

_Father Hugue continued to apply holy oil to Palme's forehead, then draped his stole around the man's shoulders, as the rite often instructed them to do. Instead of being reviled by the touched of the blessed objects, the vestments seemed to be melting away. Hugue's gaze hardened and Pommodori hesitated; what manner of trickery was the demon Sabnock producing?_

"_Father," called the blond priest, "what is he doing?"_

_The demon's laughter almost broke Pommodori's focus as he approached the restrained man._

"_My God, my God…" The old priest shuddered as he watched the purple vestment disappear from reality. "This man...Olof Palme. He is perfectly possesed. The contract between Sabnock and himself is rock solid and agreed upon. There is nothing-"_

"_**Nothing you can do, you collared imbecile!" **__Sabnock laughed as he broke through his restraints and shoved the exorcist up against the wall.__** "Now, I shall become the champion of all Hell by releasing you from the mortal coil. Go ahead, priest, invoke Jesus! Invoke St. Michael! They won't save you now!" **__The demon man smiled, his teeth all formed to a sharp point, and a serpent slithered from his right ear._

"_Father!" Hugue withdrew his katana._

Pommodori rubbed his temples as he read through the Gospel. "And as he stepped out on land, there met him a man from the city who had demons; for a long time he had worn no clothes, and he lived not in a house but among the tombs. When he saw Jesus, he cried out and fell down before him, and said with a loud voice, "What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I beseech you, do not torment me.""

Esther had heard this Gospel many times before, but never had in struck the chord within her it did now. She had felt uncomfortable around Brother Desmond since they had met him, and suspicious of him since he had shown them the gardens of the Order. Legion, the demons that Christ Himself had exorcised, hadn't caused the emotional distress Andras was causing the AX team now. But it showed there was hope; if Jesus had managed to cleanse a wild man of many demons, surely they could cast out the one demon possessing Brother Desmond by His power?

"For he had commanded the unclean spirit to come out of the man. For many a time it had seized him; he was kept under guard, and bound with chains and fetters, but he broke the bonds and was driven by the demon into the desert. Jesus then asked him, "What is your name?" And he said, "Legion"; for many demons had entered him." Pommodori continued.

Abel had his hands clasped in prayer, his eyes pointed at the floor. He had often heard of amputees experiencing phantom limb syndrome, pain in the limbs that were no longer attached. At that moment, Father Nightroad was feeling the searing pain in his wing from where Andras had grasped, how it had coursed through his body, inciting every nerve ending available. The Crunsik priest had often heard the three smallest bones in the human body were in the ear; he now knew that anatomy to be fact because for once, he had been able to feel every one of those bones.

The old priest steadied himself. "And they begged him not to command them to depart into the abyss. Now a large herd of swine was feeding there on the hillside; and they begged him to let them enter these. So he gave them leave. Then the demons came out of the man and entered the swine, and the herd rushed down the steep bank into the lake and were drowned. When the herdsmen saw what had happened, they fled, and told it in the city and in the country."

Tres stared straight ahead. The ritual of the Mass was no secret to the Killing Doll; he had celebrated it many times in his life, in every language, in almost every major country in Europe. The Professor had recently activated his sensory preceptors, and Tres was now functioning at eight-five percent capacity. Even though his calculations estimated it would be unwise to re-attempt the exorcism without some sort of weapon, he knew this would be ill advised.

"Then people went out to see what had happened, and they came to Jesus, and found the man from whom the demons had gone, sitting at the feet of Jesus, clothed and in his right mind; and they were afraid. And those who had seen it told them how he who had been possessed with demons was healed. Then all the people of the surrounding country of the Ger'asenes asked him to depart from them; for they were seized with great fear; so he got into the boat and returned. The man from whom the demons had gone begged that he might be with him; but he sent him away, saying, "Return to your home, and declare how much God has done for you." And he went away, proclaiming throughout the whole city how much Jesus had done for him. This is the Gospel of the Lord." Father Pommodori finished by holding the lectionary up and kissing the page on which he had finished.

"Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ," responded the other AX members.

Pommodori began to cough, a dry hacking number that persisted for a minute. He retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket underneath his vestments, and wiped his mouth.

"You must pardon me, my dear brothers and sister," He smiled warmly, beginning his homily, "I am but an old priest, one who has seen better days before me. When I was a young man, there was a dangerous trend in the Church. Several prominent theologians offered arguments against the existence of Hell and the Devil. They commented that the Devil had made himself known on Earth, and that no forgiving God would allow them to be tormented so. As the wars continued, these supposed learned men claimed that the Methuselah were the sons of Satan, demons who wanted nothing more than to corrupt and sentence the human race to extinction.

"But I have since learned the truth, as we all have. The Devil is indeed very real, his presence and manifestations are constant and persistent. It's not as easy as blaming one group of people as Satan's legions, for that is not the case. Men themselves are made of warring halves, the good and evil, the righteous and the dishonest, the miraculous and the deceptive. It is important to remember that we are not the supreme and ultimate judge. That power lies to God Almighty, whom we all must answer to."

Pommodori fell silent as a familiar blonde priest entered the room. He hadn't seen Hugue since the outcome of the exorcism, and judging by the priest's gaze, he hadn't forgotten what had to be done there. What surprised the exorcist more was the young man in the wheelchair who Hugue was wheeling in.

"Your...Holiness?" The priest choked out over the pulpit.

Alessandro looked weaker than usual, his face still a pale shade of white, purple bruising dotting his scalp and neck. He was dressed in a simple white cassock, the papal zucchetto adorning his head. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and his hair was a tangled mess. A slight shadow of stubble was apparent on his face, and his hands and his left ankle were heavily bandaged. Even though it had been close to a week since the young pontiff was assaulted, it looked like he had just been through Hell and back.

Hugue confidently pushed the Pope down the center aisle of the small chapel, doing his best to ignore the shocked stares of his fellow AX members. It was almost as though they were looking at a ghost, or two ghosts to be more precise; one of them, the Pope, most assumed was on a certain deathbed, and the other a team member who rarely showed his face around them. The man whose glare Father Hugue was most insistent on ignoring was the old man on the pulpit. There were certain memories even he wasn't strong enough to bear.

Hugue turned Alessandro to face the entire collection of clergy gathered in the small chapel, and he himself sat in the back pew, as far away from the others as he could be.

"Brothers and sister," The Pope started, "I have not always been the strongest leader I could've been. I was fearful, and really, I still am. But I've learned something from my…." He paused, and shuddered, "...tribulation. I want nothing more than to see us all be strong. We have to stand up and not give in. We have to be strong and not worry about personal issues that may plague us, or the actions of our past that might bring guilt and a heavy heart. We have to stand strong…"

As the Pope spoke these last words, he braced his hands on the arms of his wheelchair. Slowly, but surely, he pulled himself to a standing position, the chill of the marble floor being felt through his slippers. As he steadied himself, the others members of AX came to their feet as well. The Professor was amazed; he had seen the damage Andras had done to the Pope. No mortal man should have survived the attack, never mind be standing. Even if it had been a whole year, Alessandro would still need massive amounts of physical therapy before he would be able to stand.

"We have to stand strong. We can stand united, but we also have to have faith and confidence in standing alone."

Alessandro's words resonated with each member of AX. Pommodori and Hugue shared a silent exchange; what had happened between them in Stockholm would continue to be their secret, and it would not taint the upcoming ceremony.

Abel pushed his glasses on the bridge of his nose; no matter how guilty he felt about Lilith and his past actions, he had to put it out of mind to vanquish Andras.

Tres's programming processed what the Pope was saying; each step he took must be examined and superfluous actions eliminated.

The Professor knew that no rational man of science would believe the sights he had seen, no matter the proof offered.

Esther reflected quietly on the Pope's words, as her mind went through all the new experiences she had in the past week. She offered the young pontiff a small smile of assurance. _Him being here might be the miracle we all need. _


	15. Risveglio Salvo

**Risveglio Salvo  
By: James Austin Valiant**

They had dispersed after the midday prayers, each brown hooded man retreating to the last task they had been performing. The Order of Saint Sebastian was an effective machine in that way; they had no official abbot or leader, but maintained a cohesive flow of function. The men who possessed the greatest affinity for any one particular task were assigned to that; Brother Desmond was their orator, while Brother Lucius oversaw the massive gardens. Brother Luke led prayer services, and Brother Winsor was in charge of the kitchen. Each member knew his place and they were content to serve within it.

Even so, there had been some senior members of the Order who were upset at Desmond's appointment. The quiet monk had suddenly, almost overnight, become a fiery upstart, inspiring ideas of reconciliation and reintegration into the Church. These, of course, were not radical ideas; the monks themselves had debated for decades about the pros and cons of such actions. But only recently had the Order had any drive to actually reestablish connections with the Vatican, due in a great deal to Desmond's influence.

Brother Juan Carlos Hidalgo had, unlike many of the other Sebastianites, held several jobs throughout his tenure in the Order. He had started off in the kitchen, then transferred to the scriptorium, then briefly served as an accountant and finally served in his current position as both doorman and mentor. Hidalgo had actually been the one to champion Ian Desmond's admission to the Order, as some of the other senior monks had wanted to reject him.

Hidalgo was used to getting his way; ever since he had been a young man, he found that a defiant attitude, as well as generally being cocky, got him what he wanted more often than not. He was originally a soldier in Alcaraz, a good soldier at that. The young Spaniard had served well, repelling the massive Methuselah attacks that often struck his home province. However, he had allowed his cocky attitude to get the best of him. A well-aimed shot had shattered his left kneecap, leaving him unsuitable for further military service. His father, a former general, felt disgraced by his lame son's presence, and threw him out of the household.

Desperate, Juan Carlos had sought out refuge from the Order of Saint Sebastian. He had heard of their miracles, the healing that the Order promised. Juan Carlos was so impressed by the manner he was treated, by their rigidity and military-like order, that he pledged to take vows almost as soon as he was healed. Brother Hidalgo achieved full status within the Order in a little less than three years, and he attributed his intense success to his military training.

Hidalgo sauntered from the central chapel to his post at the gates of the Order's complex. The job of the gatekeeper was sometimes boring, yet required a certain strength and resilience in order to maintain a secure watch. Many people had heard of the miraculous properties of the Order, and several thousand did their best each year to cross the threshold. Brother Hidalgo made sure that only the qualified did.

For some reason, the hot, striking sun that day brought back a distinct memory. The day Ian Desmond had come upon his doorstep.

_The wind was whipping against his face like a frozen cat of nine tails, and Hidalgo had wanted badly to warm himself by the hearth. His strength kept him outside, at his newest post as guardian at the gate. How he wished the Order allowed him to be armed for this duty; he missed the feeling of a gun at his side._

_The monk spotted a man approaching the compound, sparsely dressed in clothes the style of the Kingdom of Albion. Hidalgo had been to Albion before; he considered it a frivolous and insipid country, more concerned with gossip and idolatry of its Royal Family than anything else. It was no wonder the island Kingdom was the weaker of the world powers._

_The Albionian man was unkempt, a long shaggy beard and stringy looking hair. Hidalgo loathed beggars; they seemed to think every monk, sister and priest was charged with caring for the homeless and hungry. This was not part of the of the orders he'd taken upon being made a monk, and he had no respect for anyone who had to plead for food and money. He'd cast this man out quicker than he had all the others._

"_Excuse me please, sir?" The homely man even sounded weak._

"_No beggars. Move on." The best reply, the monk found, was often a curt reply._

"_I'd like to join the Order of Saint Sebastian." The Albionian man sure sounded like he was begging._

"_Entrance into the Order is strictly regulated." Hidalgo spat. _

_The younger man's face fell. He shuffled closer to the gatekeeper, so much so that the monk could now smell the stench of several months. "Please, sir!"_

_Hidalgo glared, hoping his dark eyes would cause the man to scatter._

"_I've been abandoned by my family," The hopeless man started again, "my father, you see, he cast me out. I have done nothing but toil and slave for him, I ever went so far as to enlist in the Royal Albionian Navy and he cast me aside, told me I was useless. And since the Navy honorably discharged me, I have had no home-"_

"_Enough. Get inside, soldier." Hidalgo could no sooner turn away a fellow service member than he could turn away flesh and blood. He could have probably turned away flesh and blood more easily, since the armed forces had one thing his family did not: honor._

Brother Hidalgo had served as Desmond's confessor, and even when the weak novice wanted to quit and leave, the Spanish monk had convinced him to stay. Hidalgo could tell through the young man's writings a great deal of potential lay within him; it was the steps to unlock it that would prove difficult.

"Brother?"

The nasally voice of Brother David Winsor stirred him from his thoughts. The short, plump man sported a thick set of glasses and tufts of grayish black hair were receding from his forehead. Though his round state seemed to imply a lazy attitude, Brother Winsor was hardworking and clean to a fault. His hair was parted neatly to one side, and his fingernails were short and well-kept. The only thing Brother Hidalgo loathed about the man was his voice; the pitch and tone served both to annoy and bore him. _Maybe that's why we agreed to let him be the cook. Keep him away from the rest of us._

"Yes, Brother?"

The other monk leaned against the fence, catching his breath. "Have you received word from Brother Desmond?"

_Dear God, it's not that far from the kitchen to the front gate…_"I have not, Brother Winsor."

"Don't you think you should try to make contact? It's been almost a week and we are all getting rather restless." Brother Winsor offered innocently.

"I, unlike the rest of you, have faith in Brother Desmond and his abilities," the monk began, "if not for him, we never would have made contact with the Vatican in the first place. Not one of us rose up to take charge, to mold our collective opinions into a renewed purpose for the Order. We were all content to sit about and rely on our past wealth and healing practices to keep us in service. It was Brother Desmond who called the option of reconciliation back to the table, it was Brother Desmond who made contact with the Vatican, and it is Brother Desmond who is currently serving as our envoy."

"You don't have to be such an ass, Juan Carlos. I was only asking the question no one else wanted to, because everyone else thinks you're an unapproachable ingrate." Brother Winsor admitted honestly.

Brother Hidalgo turned on his heel, ignoring the shorter man.

"Hey! I'm talking to you, you piece of garbage! I'm not scared of you like everyone else in this Order is...you don't frighten me, Juan Carlos! I was a rector in the slums of Paris before I came here, I've had to disarm drug dealers and Methuselah." Brother Winsor kicked the iron gate stubbornly.

The former soldier spun around quickly, his woollen robe flailing with his action. "You're not scared, are you? Well, that's just dandy. Why don't you get your fat ass out here and I'll show what you should be scared of, David?"

The chubby monk pressed his face between the bars of the gate. "Why don't you just cut it out and call the Vatican already?"

The Spanish monk moved closer to the gate and met Brother Winsor's gaze. "Make me, Brother Eats-Too-Much."

The shorter monk's fist shot out from an open space in the middle of the gate, hitting the former soldier straight in the kidney. Hidalgo doubled over, clutching his side. He had made the cardinal mistake that most cocky fighters did: underestimating his enemy. With any luck, the pain would cede in two hours, and he might feel up to standing straight in a day or so. It was a stupid idea for them to fight amongst each other, but this wasn't over. Brother Hidalgo would not stand for such insolence.

"Fine. I'll call him, Brother Winsor."

"Thank you." Brother Winsor responded graciously, and he started toward the kitchen. The older monk was content with himself; the discomfort he had caused the Spanish monk was nothing compared to the years of ill feeling Hidalgo had caused. _I hope he ends up peeing blood for a week!_

_

* * *

_

The Pope had been incapacitated for nearly a week. While most believed him to be merely on vacation, certain high ranking cardinals and other clergy knew he was injured. Very few, however, knew the extent or cause of His Holiness's injuries. The teams hired by Francesco to investigate the papal apartments had purposely leaked select details to the tabloids of Rome, to discredit any sort of rumors that might arise. Caterina hadn't necessarily approved of her brother's tactics, but was grateful for them.

The young pontiff had never been unattended. When Francesco and Caterina could not make themselves available, they had charged Brother Petros with keeping vigil. They had shared a collective groan upon ushering Petros to the Pope's bedside; he had sobbed and wept with such audible fervor that the two had seriously considered reassigning him to another post. But Petros was a resilient and trustworthy soldier and neither cardinal could think of anyone who, outside the immediate family, loved the Pope more.

Petros had indeed been vigilant on his watch, scarcely abandoning his post. There wasn't much to watch; Il Ruinante would have been considerably bored by this assignment, had the importance of the Pope's safety not been at stake. A steady supply of coffee had kept the soldier at arms and attentive to the Bishop of Rome's well-being. The steaming liquid that he nursed tasted faintly burnt.

Despite Petros' attention, the young Alessandro's consciousness was a million miles away. An airy, white dimension that reminded him greatly of the images on the Sistine Chapel's ceiling. Choirs sung around him, but he could not see them. When he looked down at his hands, Alessandro noticed that were transparent and almost luminescent. _Where am I? _

Alessandro moved around with ease, but found no one to answer his questions. The only thing in his sight were massive Roman columns, that stood in front of an old style building that resembling a courthouse. The boy was nervous; he had seldom been outside the Vatican on his own, and even when he was, it was only to places that had he had known since he was a little boy. His father, Pope Gregorio XXX, had been a well-traveled and learned man; Alessandro felt there was no way he could ever stand up to that sort of status.

"H-hello?" The Pope stuttered, before deciding to climb the stairs and enter the massive structure. The heavy, glistening door swung open with surprising ease, and Alessandro tentatively entered.

Marble floors made his soft footsteps echo off the walls, and it was at this point he realized he wasn't dressed in his usual papal regalia. Instead, he was wearing a simple white cassock; no mitre adorned his head and no cape was around his shoulders. Even his Ring of the Fisherman had gone missing. He couldn't imagine someone had just stolen these things from him; they were both important and necessary to his office.

"Hello?" The Pope called again, a little more confidently.

"Hello, Alec." A soothing female voice answered him, sending the Pope running to the far corner of the room.

"S-s-sister? Is that you?" His voice had retreated to a weak whisper.

Small, clicking footsteps were the next sounds the Pope heard. They increased in volume and he peeked up from underneath his hands. He saw her flowing, immaculate white robes before she fully came into view.

A stunning woman was approaching him. Her kind smile reminded him of his mother, but this woman had darker skin and vibrant red hair. An intricate pattern of pearls adorned her robe and strings of them cascaded around her neck. Her eyes were dark, matching her complexion. Alessandro cowered, but some outside presence told him he shouldn't be scared of this lady in front of him.

"No, dear Alec, I am not your sister." Her smooth words relaxed him.

"Who are you, then?" His voice picked up a bit.

"I am your friend. I am also a good friend of Father Nightroad."

The Pope smiled nervously, looking at the floor. He wasn't as well acquainted with Father Nightroad as his sister was, but she knew he trusted him with her life. _Anyone who's friends with Father Nightroad should be a good person...sister is a good judge of character, I think._ He shuffled nervously, unable to meet the beautiful woman's gaze again.

"Do you know where you are, Alec?" She asked, trying to rouse him into a talking mood.

"I'm in the Vatican, right? Where else could I be?" The Pope queried.

"Dear Alec, this is not quite the Vatican. You are in a realm where innocent souls often come when faced with the loosening of their mortality." Her words came softly.

"I'm not…" Alessandro couldn't finish his sentence, as tears began to fall from his face. He wailed and threw himself into the arms of the woman in front of him. "WAHHH! I CAN'T BE! IT'S TOO SCARY!"

She hugged the Bishop of Rome, caressing his hair under her dainty hands. Alessandro found comfort in his sudden and uncharacteristic actions; she smelled sweet, like cardamom and cinnamon. His sobs relaxed almost as immediately as they had begun. She had some sort of magic power, one he couldn't quite pinpoint. But it relaxed him and made him feel comfortable, something he hadn't felt since his mother had passed away.

"This isn't Heaven, Alec. You aren't dead." She paused. "I'm here to help you."

"Help me with what?"

"You were attacked."

The Pope shuddered and buried his head in the woman's shoulder.

"I know you don't want to remember, Alec, but it's imperative that you do," She began, "You have to accept what happened and move on. Let me tell you a story. Many, many years ago, I had two reckless young brothers. They plundered and killed, maimed and terrorized. They were beasts and savages. I fought them, sometimes on a grand scale and with many casualties. I never stopped believing that good lay in their hearts, no matter what the case might have been. They were my brothers."

He peered up at her. "What happened?"

"One of my brothers, he was evil indeed. He cut my head off," She pulled down the collar of her robe, showing off the eternal scar the damage had left, "But my other brother, he truly felt the guilt of his actions. His strength and want to repent empowered him to fight his brother, to defend the righteous and the noble. So you see, even though my belief resulted in my own death, it empowered another to do what was right."

The Pope stepped back out of the woman's embrace, slightly grossed out by the scar she had just shown him. "S-so what do I do?"

"A demon attacked you, Your Holiness," She had used his formal style, "A powerful demon by the name of Andras. Your chief exorcist is dismissing him by saying all demons claim power, but Andras is in possession of quite a bit of power. He's one of the six Princes of Hell, serving directly under the Dark Lord. I fear that there's not enough caution being taken in dealing with him."

Alessandro stared blankly. "But what do I do?"

"You must assist in the exorcism."

The Pope stared blankly, his eyes beginning to tear again. "B-b-but...I'm just...I'm just a boy. I d-d-don't have the experience to-"

The woman knelt down and clasped Alessandro's hands. "No one's ever left you on your own, have they?"

Alessandro looked away, shaking his heard from side to side.

"Has anyone ever trusted with you anything?"

"I guess," He answered, thinking of how his brother and sister had convinced the College of Cardinals to elect him Pope.

"There are millions of people in the world who look up to you, Alec," She responded, and he felt his insecurities fading, "and it's up to you to inspire them. You are going to be an amazing Pope, and standing up to a Prince of Hell is going to be the very thing that launches you into the forefront. Once one stands up to demon, they are forever in a perpetual state of grace. You will be privy to a state that very few have been able to achieve, and you will lead the Church through a very dark period."

"How c-c-can you be so sure?" Alessandro asked, his trust in the woman wavering.

"I just know, Alec. You need to abandon your doubt and your insecurity. Andras will use these things against you, identify you as a target. I know you can do this, Alec, and so do your siblings, Francesco and Caterina. Despite what you think, they both believe in you. Come here, dear Alec…" She cradled his face tenderly and pressed her right hand on his forehead, "...see how it feels to be without fear…"

Her touch made him jump, and with his exhale, the Pope felt different feelings leaving his form. Nervousness, trepidation, awkwardness, shyness...new emotions began to replace them. Confidence, pride, tenacity, courage. He had felt these feelings before, but scarcely had they ever overwhelmed him in such a fashion. _I wish I could feel like this all the time..._Alessandro smiled, revelling in their presence.

"You can, Alec. You have the power. You are able to do so many things you yourself aren't even aware of yet." The woman's voice continued to soothe the usually distressed Pope, and he offered her a bright grin.

"Thank you. You've helped me so much." He stopped; and mentally kicked himself. "Pardon me, but what is your name?" This woman had done so much for him, and he had abandoned all the proper formality and manners Caterina had taught him.

"Tell Father Nightroad I don't blame him. As for you, it's time to wake up, Your Holiness." She answered, returning his smile. "It's time for you to wake up."

Alessandro saw her fading from his sight, and felt himself being pulled in a different direction.

"Wait! What's your name? Please, don't make me leave!" He cried.

The Pope's eyelids flung open, and he screamed suddenly. Immediately, Brother Petros was at his side.

"Your Holiness! Oh, you're all right! It must be a miracle! A true miracle from God!" Petros clasped the boy's hands, holding it tightly.

"Erm, yes, indeed…" The young Pope had always been intimidated by the soldier's eagerness. He often wondered if Petros sincerely liked him, or if he was after something else. His time in the papacy had taught him to be suspicious of anyone who was too eager to agree or approve of him.

"Is there anything I can get you, Your Holiness? Anything at all?" Before Alessandro could respond, the door to his room open, and in strode a halfway familiar face.

"I need you to come with me, Your Holiness." Hugue's voice was flat, but still carried the urgency of a man in need.

"Of course," The Pope found himself saying, "Please get me a wheelchair, Brother Petros."

Petros nodded accordingly, and left the room to fulfill the Pope's request.

* * *

Pommodori had retreated to his personal apartment after the Mass. Seeing Hugue and the Pope had rattled him slightly, and when the Pope had approached him after the final benediction, requesting to be Pommodori's second in the exorcism, the old priest had just about passed out. Whoever the demon possessing Brother Desmond was, he was certainly no ordinary rank and file entity.

Pommodori sighed as he retrieved the keys to his door. All he wanted to do at this moment was pour a glass of strong whiskey and sleep in his overstuffed armchair. Once he collected his thoughts, he would be able to better address the situations at hand. _Even with Father Leon incapacitated, there's two more willing to assist. That cell is only so big...and how many more people will Andras corrupt? Maybe I was wrong, maybe there is more than one demon residing in Brother Desmond…_

The old priest sighed again, chucking his keys on the counter. He sauntered to his counter, retrieving a small glass. He then grabbed the dusty bottle of whiskey off the top shelf of his cabinet, and poured until the glass was a quarter full of the dark amber liquid.

Pommodori shuffled to his small living area, pulling at his collar.

"Hello, Father."

The priest almost dropped his drink. "Hugue! You nearly caused me to have a heart attack!"

The blonde priest was seated in the chair next to Pommodori's. He nodded. "It's been awhile."

Pommodori nodded in agreement, easing himself into his overstuffed chair. He sipped his drink, then leaned back in, closing his eyes and taking the peace that his small living quarters offered. He barely acknowledged Hugue sitting beside him, instead preferring the comfortable silence that existed between the two of them.

Hugue pursed his lips together; Pommodori was the only other priest he knew who could annoy him by being quiet. Every other person he was nominally acquainted with - Abel, the Professor - talked way too often and said nothing of real value. To him, anyway.

"I take it your first exorcism didn't go so well?" Hugue offered.

"I forgot…" Pommodori began.

"You forgot what happened at the exorcism?"

He took another sip from his drink. "I forgot...I forgot to ask him. I forgot to ask Desmond if he approved of the exorcism."

Hugue showed his surprise by subtly raising his eyebrows. "That's a pretty important step, Guiseppe. The possessed can not be freed unless he consents."

The old priest grimaced, then swallowed. Hugue would be one of the only people who could get away with calling him 'Guiseppe'. "I know, I know. I can't believe I forgot. I wanted to tell them...but...I can't take responsibility for that much damage. Andras might not have caused so much damage had I got Desmond's permission. I shouldn't even be doing this…"

"Don't doubt yourself. You're the best around."

Pommodori took a bigger sip. "I'm the only one around!"

"Are you accusing me of something, Guiseppe?"

The old exorcist rubbed his temples. "No, no. I know your type, Hugue. I don't ever expect you to settle down and take in the job of chief exorcist. But Lord knows I'm not getting any younger. There aren't priests who believe in this sort of thing anymore...not when there are highly visible evils in this world."

Hugue agreed silently, and Pommodori placed his drink down on the coffee table in front of them.

"Can't you recruit from the seminary? Ask the bishop for an understudy?"

"I've tried. They either laugh in my face or tell me they're pursuing a different calling. Despite the eagerness to combat the Methuselah, there's none to combat the influence of the Devil. This interest from Cardinal Sforza is the most help I've had since you joined me all those years ago." Pommodori finished.

"Stockholm." Hugue offered candidly.

"Yes." The one word was enough to conjure up bad memories. He didn't want to discuss it, and he felt that the blonde priest would not tread onto this topic. The last thing Pommodori needed was an in depth analysis of his failed exorcism.

"Does Desmond's situation remind you of any other exorcisms you've performed?"

Pommodori was thankful for Hugue's divergence from discussing Stockholm. "No, not really. I've had to cleanse monasteries and churches from oppression, and some of the religious have complained of demonic influence, but I've never encountered anyone who has taken Holy Orders as being possessed by a demon. Especially not one as powerful as this Andras is."

"I took the liberty of thumbing through this book," Hugue revealed a copy of _An Exorcist Tells His Story_. "This Father Amorth claims to have exorcised an entire religious community living in the Carpathian mountains. Might it help to review it?"

The old priest nursed his whiskey. "It might not hurt. Amorth held the office of Chief Exorcist in the twentieth century, the same office I hold now. Any guidance he can offer, I'm open to."

Hugue handed Pommodori the earmarked page. "I've never seen you look so distressed before. You have a good way of hiding it."

"I have to, Hugue. My strength must be shown, while my weaknesses are dealt with through prayer and personal restraint. I'm an important figure to the others; I can feel their eyes looking to me for strength and guidance." Pommodori sighed. "I don't mean to be rude, Hugue, but would you mind leaving? We're starting early tomorrow and I don't want to be too tired."

"Of course." Hugue got up to leave and started towards the door. As he did, the old exorcist started coughing violently, and the blonde priest stayed a moment longer until the dry, hacking sounds calmed down.

_Sleep well, my old friend. _Hugue motioned the Sign of the Cross in Pommodori's direction. _Tomorrow will be a long day. _


	16. Crepes Del Rancorre

**Crepes Del Rancorre  
By: James Austin Valiant**

"Please. Don't. Please don't…"

The young child raised his arms above his head, doing his best to shield himself from the powerful being in front of him. The blood red scythe hung mere inches away from him, ready to release him from the terror of a lifetime.

"What is the matter, boy?" A sickening chuckle rose from the swirling, black winged form in front of him. "Are you frightened?"

The child's short bursts of heaving sobs only served to further satisfy the man's insane bloodlust. The boy's head seemed to disappear into his elbows, and his knees sank into his chest. He struggled for words, any words that might make the boogeyman in front of him go away.

"...I want my mommy…"

The creature laughed again, raising in his scythe high above his own head, reading to strike. "Don't worry, young one. You'll be seeing her sooner than you think!"

The Crusnik priest shuddered, and opened his eyes slightly. _It was only a dream...only a really bad dream. _Since the encounter with the demon, Abel had been plagued with detestable memories and nightmares; he knew that Andras was toying with him, trying to weaken him mentally. He rolled over, pulling the sheet and comforter up over his shoulders.

A light scent wafted through the still air, carried itself down the halls slowly. It was an alluring smell; light and buttery, with the slightest hint of golden deliciousness. The scent progressed, bringing a full battery of temptations along. No hungry man, woman or child would not be immune from the attractive fulfillment that seemed to be approaching them.

Of course, Abel Nightroad was the epitome of hunger, and the smell steadily aroused him from the sleep he was trying to return to.

It was far from breakfast time, however. The night sky was waning, holding onto what little time it had left before the sun appeared. Abel had purposely left his shade up, knowing full well even the slightest peek of sunshine would make staying in bed impossible. The silver haired priest preferred the natural awakening as opposed to artificial bells and whistles; there was something about being jarred out of a perfectly good sleep that could set a good day down a mediocre path.

Abel slumped out of bed and shuffled to the door. The airy aroma was still amazingly attractive, and the priest considered briefly who could be cooking at this hour. Pulling on a well-worn flannel robe, he started off down the hallway.

A distinct sound of whistling echoed off the quiet hallways, along with the occasional, alternating exclamations of "Perfection!" and "Damn it!". Abel rubbed his eyes with the arm of his night shirt. _Surely, that's *not* who I think it is..._He pressed on, nudging open the thin door to the kitchenette.

Before he noticed the Professor, Father Nightroad took in the full assault of the aroma that roused him from his slumber. Now that he was directly on top of it, the rich, yet delicate, light and decadent fluffy smell registered on his taste buds as well. _Mmm...buttery, sort of crispy, with the necessity of many, many, oh so many different types of fillings…_

"Abel!" The Professor never seemed startled by the sudden presence of company. He was dressed in a normal cassock, dotted with patches of flour and wrapped in an apron. "I didn't expect to see anyone, especially you, this early! What brings you here?"

"Crepes."

"Ahhh! Wise, wise man," The Professor grinned, enormously proud of the stacks of French pastry sitting in neat piles on the countertops. "It's a recipe I've perfected myself - months and months of trial and error. Just the right amount of flour, milk and...well, the rest of the ingredients are my little secret. Every once in a while, I get the urge to make a dozen or so batches and freeze them for later. Delicious, delicious creations, if I do say so myself."

Abel cast the Albionian a long, unimpressed stare.

"Please, Abel, help yourself!" Turning back to the stove, he was completely oblivious to anything but his work, as the Professor tended to be.

The groggy priest reached out for the nearest rolled crepe, feeling the inviting warmth of the wrapped food. He raised the crepe to his mouth and took a rather large bite. Abel chewed it slowly, savoring the flakiness of the delicate food. As it seemingly melted in his mouth, the priest 's taste buds registered an earthy, sort of meaty flavor. He gagged and spit it out into his hand, trying not to make a scene.

"Not to your liking, Father Nightroad?" The Professor's sarcasm was more than obvious.

"Mushrooms." Abel managed sleepily. "I don't like mushrooms."

Without turning his attention from the stove, the Professor motioned towards an array of small glass jars. "There's plenty of preserves to choose from, Abel. Dress them up however you like. I forget exactly what is there…"

The silver haired priest reached over to the collection of jams. Had he been fully awake, his sugar sense would've tingled the moment he had come in a mile of these beauties. Despite her fame for herbal teas, Sister Kate was enormously skilled at jams and jellies, and made quite a comfortable contribution to the Church bankroll by selling her sweet spreads.

Abel scanned the labels as though reading a fine print contract. _Raspberry, strawberry, black raspberry, blueberry, cherry, dark cherry, apricot, plum..._The priest's eyes widened. Plum was Abel's absolute, all time favorite flavor of anything. He quickly twisted the cap off and plunged in his right thumb, scooping up a healthy portion of the jam. His plum colored thumb instantly found his tongue, and he savored the juicy, saccharine tango that danced inside his mouth.

"Please don't stick your finger into the jam again, Abel. Sister Kate only lets me have so much of it." The Professor voice was tense as he swirled the crepe batter delicately.

"Sorry," The other priest apologized, reaching for a small spoon. "Why are you up so early?"

"I'm not. I never went to sleep."

"What?" Abel asked, as he spread a thick layer of purple jam on a crepe.

"I couldn't, Abel, I just…" The Professor trailed off, twisting the small pan around so the crepe would come out carefully, "I can't go back."

"Whaff?" Abel's question remained the same, even with a mouthful of food.

"This exorcism business, I understand…" The Professor let out a long sigh. He didn't usually have to take so much time and effort into forming his thoughts into words. "I understand the importance of what we're doing. I've been on board since the beginning, since my interrogation of Desmond in his cell last week."

His thoughts drifted back.

_The monk laughed, and the Professor shivered._

_"I am aligned with no one but myself, priest." The pencil and pad flung from the priest's hands across the room. 'Did I just...did I just do that out of anger?' The Professor rubbed his eyes. The air in the room was thick, and the stench was choking him. That rotten stench that reeked of the sewers…_

_He looked back in Brother Desmond's direction. The monk stood proudly, his posture stiff and rigid, his eyes blank and glassy. He was gesturing in the direction of the Albionian priest, as his lips moving wordlessly. The Professor then noticed something that shook him deeply._

_Brother Desmond was floating a good half-meter off the ground._

The Professor shook his head, causing the memory to vanish. "Everything we've seen, everything we've witnessed...I haven't quite let on, Abel, but it has shaken me to the core. It has defied reason and logic and I can't...I can't bring myself to go back. This is not my style."

Abel eyed the priest suspiciously as he swallowed. "So you're just going to...give up?"

"No, well, in a sense, I guess, I'm quitting," Once again, his words jumbled about. "I've been up since we finished celebrating Mass. I've prayed about it, I've talked about it, goodness, I've cooked about it...and everything seems to point me to the same conclusion. Andras, this demon, this Marquis of Hell - he is not my fight."

"William, you can't be serious!" Father Nightroad only had cause to use the Professor's first name every so often, and now was definitely one of those occasions.

A quick flick shut off the stove's burner, and suddenly, Abel found the Professor looming over him, a deathly scared, absolutely serious look in his eyes. The Crusnik priest had never seen this expression on the Professor before; while he was a competent warrior and a great scientist, he was never vulnerable. This newfound weakness, one Father Nightroad was sure his fellow priest did not show a lot of people, frightened him as well. _Well, as long as we're all scared…_

"Andras did a number to me, too, William," Father Nightroad reasoned, "and I'm going to go back. I'm going to go back until he's gone."

"I like your dogged determination, Abel, I always have," He was beginning to sound like himself again. The Professor joined Abel at the table, grabbing the jar of apricot jam. "You and the AX will be more than sufficient."

The two sat in uncomfortable silence, the sound of clinking glass jars and metal flatware much louder that it should have been. The Professor savored the apricot almost as much as Abel enjoyed the plum. Generous amounts of crepes disappeared as the minutes rolled by, and a golden, early morning sky peeked in through the wispy curtains of the kitchenette. Abel leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. He couldn't remember the last time he'd ate to such fullness.

A slight knock at the door dragged both men's attention away from their plates.

"Father Nightroad? Are you in here?" Sister Esther opened the door to find the Professor, half asleep in his chair. She glanced at the other priest. Abel was still wearing his nightshirt, robe and sleeping cap, and his eyes seemed to be in a dreamy, far off trance.

"Oh, hello, Esther." He remarked nonchalantly.

"For Pete's sake, Father, you're not even dressed, and Father Pommodori wants us to meet him at the Basilica in forty minutes." She grabbed ahold of his arm, "Come on, come on. Let's go get you into a fresh cassock and surplice. Do you still have your purple stole?"

"Eh? Why, yes, Miss Esther, of course I do!" He half-lied, twirling his jam spoon about. "Now, why don't you have some of these delicious crepes, hm?"

"There's no time for that now, Father. We have to get ready!" Esther insisted, pulling at his arm.

"Please, I insist, Esther," The Professor smiled, nodding off as he spoke.

"See? You wouldn't want to insult the cook!" Abel smiled, resisting Esther's physical prodding.

"Come on, come on, come on!" She pulled a bit harder, and was surprised when the priest pulled back. Esther was no match for him strength wise, and she struggled to keep her balance. Failing to do so, she spun quickly on her heel and fell on top of Father Nightroad, her white wimple falling below her eyes. She pushed it back up, and took in the awkwardness of the situation. _I'm sitting in Father Nightroad's lap…_

_Sister Esther is sitting in my lap..._Abel swallowed, his eyes locked on Esther's. Neither of them made a move, as if complete stillness might somehow make the situation less uncomfortable. It didn't. What it did accomplish, rather, was to intensifying the muted feelings that had passed between Esther Blanchett and Abel Nightroad. The priest so badly wanted to reach up and stroke her cheek, and the nun longed to trace her delicate fingers along Abel's stubble. Esther leaned forward, and Abel became noticeably tense.

"Father…" Her breath was long and drawn out.

"Yes, Sister Esther?" He barely managed to squeak out.

"Your knee is hurting me." Esther stated plainly. _What the hell else am I supposed to do? Kiss him? _

"Oh, heh, sorry," He helped her up off his lap, wishing immensely that he didn't have to.

She took the seat between him and the sleeping Professor, and took a crepe of her own. Holding in her palm, she glanced at the half eaten jar in front of Abel.

"Plum?" Esther ventured a guess.

Abel nodded happily, his spoon still stuck in the jam. He reached across the table in front of her, grabbing the jar in the center with the red cap. The priest popped the cap off, and offered it the redhead.

"Strawberry?" She asked hopefully.

"Strawberry." Abel confirmed, with an almost melodic quality to his answer.

Esther had to stop herself from squealing in delight, and she lunged for the jar. She anxiously spread the jam on her crepe, emulating Abel with the same sort of vigor for the sweet concoction. The nun relished the tangy flavor - Sister Kate absolutely refused to release any secrets about where she got her fruit and how she prepared, and Esther had been dying to taste the tangy, unique taste of the strawberries fresh. This would probably be the closest she ever got.

"I'm just going to have one," She told Father Nightroad, trying to mask her enjoyment.

His silent chuckle was readily observed.

"All right, I'm going to have two. But then we're going to get you ready!" Esther stated firmly.

"Not a problem, Miss Esther," Abel chuckled warmly, aloud this time, and joined his friend in having another jam-rich crepe.

* * *

The air was stagnant outside the cell that held Brother Desmond but the bearded monk was serving as his own personal prison. In his mortal body dwelled one of the powerful Princes of Hell, the Grand Marquis, Andras. The entity had, over time, increased its presence in Desmond's life; developing from requested advisor to omnipotent controller. The monk's presence still existed but with much smaller capacity to make himself heard. Desmond's demeanor had long dictated him as a weak and unstable soul, making him the perfect prey for the Marquis.

Andras had great plans for Desmond, or rather, for the Underworld. He had planted the idea of the sojourn to Rome in the minds of both the monk and the Order of Saint Sebastian; he had coaxed and coerced the Vatican hierarchy into meeting with him. Although he knew it would take much more time and effort by working from such a low place in Catholic society, he also knew it would keep suspicion at bay.

The Marquis's to-do list was great and each item had served a distinct purpose for mounting more control. The power and prominence of the Order was the first priority; from there, he could influence all of them to carry out his earthly ambitions. Elevating Order members to bishops and Brother Desmond to the cardinalate was next. By both these ways, Andras would obtain high ranking voices in both the Synod of Bishops and the Roman Catholic Church's governing body, the College of Cardinals.

The attack on the Pope was another grand step; by causing Alessandro mortal injuries, his death could be long and slow causing great distress to both Caterina and Francesco. In her affected state, Caterina would surely grant all of "Desmond's" requests and once Andras had secured his puppet as a cardinal it would only be a matter of a few election sessions before Desmond was coronated as the Bishop of Rome. Andras would then occupy and control the Church along with all of her resources.

Unfortunately, that plan had been altered much to the demon's dismay. The AX had found evidence linking him to the Pope's attack and the resulting imprisonment and interview had irritated Andras enough that he felt compelled to display his vulgar power.

The Grand Marquis would not stand for this. No exorcist or team of miscreant priests and nuns was going to drive him away from his great worldly achievement. One way or another, he would gain a foothold of command in the Vatican in the name of the Underworld! Too long had the ruse of Christianity enslaved the mortals that his Lord had toiled long to perfect and instruct. Too many millennia had passed since the days when demons were revered as the supreme placeholders between mortals and the unseen world.

Andras already knew that Pommodori would waste no time in attempting another exorcism and was growing tired of waiting for Desmond to decide their fate. If Desmond was weak, he would more susceptible to the team of clergy praying around him. However, if Desmond was strong, he would be able to fend off another round of exorcism which could give them the chance for escape.

"**Wake up, Ian.**" He had let the monk sleep long enough.

Desmond groaned and groggily shifted in his chains.

"**I SAID WAKE UP.**" The voice of Andras grew to a shouting growl, rousing Desmond more abruptly than before.

"Wha...what do you want?" Desmond's words came out haltingly, as if he couldn't remember how to speak.

"**I want to know what you have decided shall happen next.**"The Grand Marquis prided himself on being succinct.

Desmond refrained from answering, his mouth a barren, arid wasteland that tasted of iron and bile. How badly he longed for just a chip of ice, even a slight mist to relieve his aching thirst. He struck his tongue against the roof of his mouth struggling for saliva.

"**Do you even know?**" Andras's voice has turned icy, yet retained a cool confidence.

"I just want...I'm so thirsty, Andras…" Desmond pleaded.

"**Answer me first, Ian.**"

"Why do you call me that? I am Brother Desmond," He replied weakly.

"**It is your name, the untitled name you first used.**" Andras kept his reply short, prompting Desmond to follow with the answer he needed to hear.

Brother Desmond paused. This time, the feeling of thirst had migrated to his thought. Not literal, physical thirst, but a severe desire for the security and power that the demon promised. Ever since Andras had seeped his way into the monk's life, the prominence and gain of status had been exciting and exhilarating. How could he consider abandoning that?

"**Throughout the millennia, I have enriched many mortal lives by amplifying their original desires and making them grander, better. That is what I have done for you, Ian: make it better.**"

"I'm not so sure about that," Desmond answered. "Sure, I mean, I had desires, to be powerful, to be a leader, to reconcile...but I...I didn't want to cause bloodshed. I saw you, Andras...you manhandled two of those priests and set the other two on fire. That was not my intention…"

"**Would you rather have me cast out before we finish the job?**" Andras did not feel he had to explain to Desmond again about necessary casualties.

"I'm still thirsty." The bearded man's parched mouth was soon bursting with a warm and sour liquid. He involuntary swallowed some of it, and spit the rest out. "Vinegar is not a thirst quencher!" Desmond spat disgustedly.

"**Be precise, Ian.**" Andras cooed in what could only be described as a low sinister chuckle.

"Water. Cold, clean, water." Desmond could barely finish his whisper as his mouth was now filled with the cool crisp liquid life he had been begging for. As he closed his lips completely he found he could keep swallowing, as much as he liked, as the supply seemed to be endless.

A deep growl rumbled in the very center of the monk's chest, followed by a sharp pull. Brother Desmond had felt this severe, separating feeling before. A golden light appeared around Desmond's form and swirled off with a concentric pattern. The light continued to condense until it resembled a man.

Andras was a magnificent specimen in his human form, the majesty of his rank reflected in his mortal characteristics. His lean torso showed no signs of malady or of scars and each muscle was clearly defined in an almost exaggerated outline. He wore a white robe loosely wrapped around his waist. The Prince of Hell's hair was an exquisite length of golden blonde and it flowed halfway down his back and over his shoulders like liquid silk. From his back he unfurled a brilliant pair of white and tan wings, similar in look to that of an owl, Andras' token animal. The proud demon stood at Desmond's side, pressing into him with his overbearing aura.

"**You could care less about our accord. You fear the consequences if you were to back out now.**"

"I care…" The monk offered, without any sort of commitment.

"**That pitiful squad of aspirant exorcists has irritated me to the highest degree. I will see each and every one of their filthy souls passed on to the lowest level of Hell and then we will continue our original mission. This is your last opportunity to turn back.**"

Desmond had hunched over, his head hung in sorrow and loathing. He peeked out from under his matted hair at the sharp, defiant gaze of Andras. The beautiful winged man who crouched at his side was noticeably enraged and the monk sighed. While he could disdain the demon's tactics and criticize the violence, the argument was plain to see: Andras had done far more for Ian Desmond than anyone had for him his entire life. His family had been cold and distant and Brother Hidalgo had done him well by supporting his admission to the Order but he had not been able to give Desmond the confidence and oratory skill that Andras had granted him. He owed everything to Andras, including his immortal soul and consent to be used as a vessel.

"Despite my apprehension, Andras," Desmond muttered, a slight tremble in his voice, "I will see out our mission to its completion."

"**I knew you would come to your senses eventually.**" The handsome demon smiled and then began to glow. He transformed into a small, golden ball of light and re-entered the monk's body.

"**When you reawaken, you will be replenished. We shall both be prepared for the next battle.**" Desmond heard Andras' voice ring like a choir in his ears, the pit of his stomach feeling warm and full. He allowed his head to fall limp, returning to a deep slumber.

* * *

Sister Esther and Father Nightroad were not the first ones to be outside the cell door in the basement of St. John's Basilica. Father Hugue, Father Tres and the Vatican's chief exorcist, Father Pommodori stood in silent harmony, clad in their exorcism vestments: plain, black cassocks, white surplices and purple stoles. The trio was at attention, looking poised, focused and to some degree, calm.

Hugue, his unwavering stare piercing and hard, had tamed his normally wild blonde locks into a simple, restrained ponytail. He had learned from working with demons before that anything loose was a potential weapon. Tres was stoic as ever, his vestments specifically made to withstand any fiery attacks. Pommodori seemed to appear even more tired and weary than he had been previously, if that was even possible. The bags under his eyes were larger.

Even though they were trying to keep their faces emotionless, Esther couldn't help but feel they were disappointed in their tardiness.

"I apologize for our late arrival-" She began, but Pommodori cut her off by raising his hand.

"Never mind that, Sister," He closed his eyes, speaking slowly, "we wait in a state of sanctifying grace. It is up to our team assembled here - myself, Father Hugue, Father Tres, Father Nightroad, Fath-"

The old priest stopped speaking, and looked around. "Where is Father Wordsworth?"

"He has decided he will not continue on with us." Abel responded promptly.

"Ah, as I suspected," Pommodori nodded, "Not all of us can have the necessary faith for this task."

Abel pushed his glasses up his nose, a nervous habit, and he noticed Esther fidgeting with her rosary. Both of them were made reasonably uncomfortable by Pommodori's declaration; they knew that the Professor was a valuable ally, no matter how he felt about the exorcism. _Or, considering that statement, the exorcist, _the priest pondered with a slight bitter feeling.

"As I was saying, myself, Sister Esther, Father Hugue, Father Tres, and Father Nightroad comprise a team that is now more focused and more aware of the dangers we face by re-entering these conditions. The demon, whose name we now know to be Andras, is slightly less powerful because we can now identify him. We can use this to cast him back to the pit for all eternity.

"Remember, the primary goal is the liberation of Brother Desmond from this evil influence; after all, no matter how much Andras puts us through, it is Desmond who has seen the worst of it." The old priest raised his hands to begin a blessing.

"We cannot begin, Father Pommodori. His Holiness has yet to arrive." Father Tres scanned the area, looking for signs of the young Pope.

"Yes, yes of course…" Pommodori, having been thrown off by the interruption, now seemed lost in deep reflection. Hugue watched his old friend cautiously; there was no telling what might happen if Pommodori exerted himself during the rite.

Esther continue to toy with her rosary, the lingering taste of strawberry still present on her tongue. She was dressed in the same style as Father Nightroad, save for the purple stole. She was more than relieved that they had found the vestment at all; he kept his room in such a state of disarray that she was surprised he found his way out in the morning. There was another side to it; Father Nightroad was constantly traveling, always off on one mission or the other. It was plausible that he just might not have the time to clean. Esther didn't blame him. Cleaning was boring and always took too long and-

"_**...that's all I've done here for you, Ian: make it better." **_

The whisper that resounded in Esther's ear was unmistakable the voice of Andras. But how was she hearing him? She glanced at her teammates. No one else seemed to be reacting to the revelation. Their silence haunted her; the young nun was the only one hearing any of this.

"_...you manhandled two of those priests and set the other two on fire. That was not my intention…" _

It was Andras and Desmond, arguing with each other. Esther couldn't call to mind ever hearing the other, weaker voice, so she had to assume that it was the true tone of Brother Ian Desmond. The overbearing, bold voice sounded only of the demon they heard some nights ago, the one who had singlehandedly almost vanquished them all. She shook her head rapidly, trying her best to end their presence in her mind.

"Is everything all right, Miss Esther?" Abel cocked his head, thrown off by her strange movements.

"Of course, of course," Esther did her best to nonchalantly excuse Father Nightroad's concern. There were other, more important things to focus on; the expulsion of the Grand Marquis, Andras, back unto the depths of Hell. They would all be needed for their unique gifts and talents; Pommodori and Hugue for their experience and level heads; Tres for his robotic strength and lack of human fallacies; Abel for his dogged determination and never say die attitude and Esther for devoted nature and obedience to God's Holy Word.

"Three people approaching, Father Pommodori; identified as His Holiness, Brother Petros and Cardinal Francesco deMedici." Tres's sensors had been slightly tweaked by the Professor, and their sensitivity led him to be able to detect the men approaching.

Pommodori sighed. Like Abel Nightroad and Caterina Sforza, Francesco deMedici was another high ranking Vatican clergy who the old priest had known from teaching seminary. While Pommodori remembered Abel and Caterina fondly, Francesco was not someone he cared to be around then, and especially not now, with his rank and status. The Cardinal was always so rash and violent in regards to Church doctrine and laws, and the old priest found it both discouraging and annoying.

The sweep of two red cloaks was the first sight the group saw. Francesco and Petros were leading the Pope down the ancient hallway, each with a determined and focused scowl on their faces. The pontiff followed close behind; although he appeared meek behind his brother and his protector, painted on his face was the same hardened look.

"Good morning, Your Holiness."

"Good morning, Father Pommodori," Francesco answered for his brother, "I trust everyone is well prepared for this next phase of the rite. Brother Petros and I are prepared to proceed with you."

"For the protection and honor of His Holiness!" Petros agreed, his voice shining with adoration.

"_**That pitiful squad of aspirant exorcists has irritated me to the highest degree. I will see each and every one of their filthy souls passed on to the lowest level of Hell and then we will continue our original mission. This is your last opportunity to turn back.**__"_

The whispering sounds filled Esther's mind again, distracting her momentarily from the entrance of the three higher rankings churchmen. _Why...why can I hear them in there? What sort of curse am I under? Did the demon do this to me? _The nun shuddered as the voices left her, turning her attention back to the Cardinal, the Pope and the Inquisitor.

"I cannot allow you to join us, unfortunately," Pommodori explained, his voice firm, "The rest of the group are now and remain in a state of sanctifying grace, one necessary for the removal and banishment of the demon who dwells within Brother Desmond."

Francesco's eyes narrowed, and his gaze fell upon each member separately. The only one who dared to lock onto him was Hugue, and the silent priest delivered his best soul crushing glare.

"This is not necessary, brother," The Pope's voice was uncharacteristically confrontational. "I can handle myself, and I am not the only one going into this situation. I'll be fine - you and Petros may go."

"But, Your Holiness-"

"No. You are both excused." Francesco was cut short by the Pope's command, and while his face retained a sharp scowl, there was a sense of pride in his younger brother. He was finally becoming assertive, and the Cardinal couldn't argue with Alessandro growing a backbone.

"Come, Brother Petros - we shall leave the Pope and this group of exorcists." As the Cardinal coolly turned to leave, Brother Petros genuflected in front of the Pope and kissed his Fisherman's Ring.

"May God be with you through your ordeal, Your Holiness!" The reverent tone rang clearly, and Brother Petros followed Francesco out of the underground hallway.

Abel moved closer to the Pope, momentarily forgetting about Esther's strange reactions to standing outside the cell. Alessandro was clad in a white cassock with a white surplice and his zucchetto. This was all very typical of his normal attire, but what stood out to Abel was the magnificent blue stole hanging around the young Pope's soldiers.

Blue was not a normally permissible color for Catholic vestments; indeed, the only time any of the assembled clergy could recall the use of blue vestments was the dioceses of Spain that regularly celebrated Masses in honor of the Virgin Mary. Silver studs formed a pattern of interlocking ringlets, and the embroidered silver crosses were placed in interlocking, five inch intervals. At the end of the stole, a bright white symbol showed a familiar design.

"What is that stole, Your Holiness?"

A small smile crept up on the lips of the Pope. "It is the stole of Saint Sebastian."

Pommodori nodded. _That young man is much more perceptive than I realized. Using a relic of the Saint is a perfect way to bring a sense of purity to the exorcism; it will appeal more to the Desmond within and hopefully cause a rift between the demon and Desmond. _

"Now that we are all gathered, I can only say this: keep your faith strong. Remember, you are servants of the Lord, but you alone do not possess the power to cast the demon out. It is only through our faith in Jesus Christ that we are able to have any prominence over the demon. The eternal and omnipotent presence of our Lord shall see us deliver Brother Desmond from the evil influences of the demon Andras. The use of his name during the exorcism is encouraged; knowing it, we can cast him out more effectively.

"Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do Thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host - by the Divine Power of God - cast into Hell, Satan and all the evil spirits,who roam throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls." The exorcist finished.

"Amen." Came the response in unison.

Esther's hearing was suddenly shot by a sharp ringing, and a searing throb radiated throughout her head. The whisper was back, the muttering of conversation between the monk and the demonic presence.

"_Despite my apprehension, Andras, I will see out our mission to its completion."_

"Ahhh..." Her whispered anguish escaped in a low, shuddered breath. The pain was dissipating as quickly as it had arrived, but the rush was too much for Esther to bear. She grasped the shoulder of Father Nightroad, steadying herself.

"Are you all right, Miss Esther?" He placed his right hand over hers gently, his voice offering a soothing comfort.

"I...I hear them." She leaned close to his ear, her words hushed. "I can hear...Desmond and Andras...talking…"

Abel offered a reassuring smile, even though her warm breath on his ear brought back the memory of her seated in his lap. "It will be all right, Esther...their silly idioglossia can't harm you."

The nun frowned. "I really hear them, Father...they're in my head."

"You need not worry about that much longer." Hugue had, of course, overheard them. "You are merely sensitive to their energies. It's not a bad thing, but it shall be done with soon."

Father Tres approached the door to the cell of Brother Desmond. He entered a seventeen digit pass code into the terminal, and used his unique retinal scan to obtain security clearance from the group. The last seal, an old fashioned padlock, was their last barrier between towards the renewal of their struggle against the demon Andras. With the click of unlocking, the android pulled the heavy cell door open, and one by one, the team entered the cell, ready to face their fate.


	17. Intercessione dello Santo

**Intercessione dello Santo  
By: James Austin Valiant**

Caterina had spent the last half hour immersed in her prayers, her fingers nimbly passing from one Rosary bead to the next. Each word only intensified her feeling of regret. Alec had desperately wanted to participate in the ceremony, and she always had trouble expressing her disdain for any of the young Pope's ideas. Caterina begrudgingly gave her blessing with the slightest of nods, and was relieved when Alec left flanked by Francesco and Brother Petros.

His eyes...something in her little brother's eyes had been different. Normally, his soft, periwinkle orbs showed only of innocence and naiveté, the perfect portrait of an unassuming child. This time, though, Alec's eyes were a hardened, cold steel color, exhibiting a calm and wise presence she had never seen before. The tones of his voice and his choice of short, simple words communicated this newfound confidence, and the part of her that didn't fear for his life was secretly proud.

She was halfway through her fortieth Hail Mary when Francesco strode into her office. He cleared his throat loudly, as though his heavy footsteps and swirling red cloak would not be enough to draw Caterina's attention.

"Can't you see I'm in the mid- why are you here? Where's Alessandro?" Caterina's voice rang with worry.

"He has elected to go forward to the rite by himself, and dismissed both Brother Petros and myself, Your Eminence." Cardinal deMedici smiled softly.

"Are you insane, Francesco? You can't possibly think that letting him go alone - why are you smiling? What about this could possibly warrant smiling?"

"Alec is weak because we keep him weak. He'll be strong when we leave him be."

Caterina raised an eyebrow. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Alessandro wanted to do this by himself. He didn't want Brother Petros or I by his side, he wanted to face his attacker. This fact alone tells me that he's growing up, Caterina; Alessandro is ready to stop being a child and start accepting his responsibilities as a man. The sooner he's able to do that, the sooner he'll become the strong Pope we both know he's destined to be." Francesco stated with conviction, his stern facial expression cast in stone.

The Iron Lady twirled her blonde curls around her fingers, a nervous habit from childhood she had never fully quit. For once, her bastard half brother had a point. If Alessandro was ever fulfill his potential as the supreme head of the Church, he was going to have to be able to stand on his own. It would only make sense, for Caterina and Francesco had agreed to not accept a papal nomination if they could get Alec on the throne. Even though the two Cardinals warred incessantly over their own influence in the Church, they both wanted their brother to be successful, to justify them pushing for his election.

"Excuse me, Your Eminence, but you have a phone call." Caterina's novice aide interrupted the comfortable, considerate silence between the two siblings.

"Thank you, Sister Emily. Excuse me, Francesco," She nodded courteously, then exited the small chapel, travelling down the hall to her office. Sister Emily followed in step.

The Cardinal entered her office and pushed a button on her communication link. "This is Cardinal Sforza, how may I help you?"

"Your esteemed Eminence, this is Brother Juan Carlos Hidalgo of the Order of Saint Sebastian. I am calling to inquire as to the whereabouts of one Brother Ian Desmond." The faint connection on Hidalgo's end of line did not fail to convey his unpleasant, if polite, demeanor.

"Ah, Brother Hidalgo. Do not worry, Desmond is here in the Vatican, safe and sound." Caterina answered, hoping that would be the end of the monk's questions.

"Are negotiations proceeding well? The Order was hoping to have regained full communion with the Church by now, but we have not heard a thing from Brother Desmond. Quite frankly, there are some among us who believed you have sequestered the monk in a cell and are trying to keep him from further bringing about reconciliation." Hidalgo's tone morphed from unpleasant to capricious.

"I assure you, Brother Hidalgo, that Brother Desmond is not trapped away in a cell," She lied, "and that he is perfectly fine, normal and healthy. Negotiations are just taking a bit longer than we expected, but myself, His Holiness and Brother Desmond should be able to reach an amicable outcome very shortly."

There was a pause on the monk's end of the line, a shuffling of papers and a clearing of the throat.

"I would like to speak with Brother Desmond."

Caterina shifted uncomfortably. "I'm afraid that he is currently attending Mass at the Pope's private chapel. I will have him get in touch with you later on."

"No." Hidalgo was just being downright hissy. "Patch me through to the Pope's apartment. I want to speak to him now."

"That is quite impossible, Brother Hidalgo, but if you'd just wait unt-"

"I knew it, I knew it!" The monk shifted to a tone of jubilant accusation. "You've been holding Desmond in a cell, against his will, forcing him to give in to your demands and desires for the Order! Well, I shall have no more of this, Your Eminence; I will depart from the grounds here at Saint Sebastian's tonight and will be in Rome by tomorrow morning!"

Caterina was shocked to hear the loud crash of a phone being slammed. Brother Hidalgo certainly sounded serious about being in Rome very shortly; she couldn't allow him to come upon the exorcism or find out about Desmond's possession. The Cardinal trusted Father Pommodori to work succinctly, and hoped in her heart that Brother Desmond would be successfully exorcised before Hidalgo reared his head.

Sister Emily approached Caterina, carrying a steaming cup of Sister Kate's magical chamomile and lemongrass tea. "I thought this might help," She offered.

"Thank you, Sister Emily. You are dismissed, if you wish." As the young novice left the room, the Lady Cardinal eased into her desk chair and sighed. _Please, Father Pommodori, come through like I know you can._

_

* * *

_

An orange sunset glowed warmly over the Vatican. Tens of thousands of young men and women were marching towards Saint Peter's Square. They formed legions of armies, some steadfast and serious, while others more social and jovial. Every one of them was committed to the same goal: the eradication of the Methuselah through a new crusade with the Catholic Church. The multitudes followed the instructions of one man, one strong individual.

The crowds gathered around him. He was their earnest and proud leader, ready to instruct them in conquering the world. The energetic man stood proudly, clad in shimmering white papal garments, adorned with fine, golden threads and precious stones. On his head sat a resplendent, three tiered Papal Tiara, a 'gift' made from gold and silver looted from the Empire of the Methuselah. He raised his hand, silencing the soldiers, and began to speak.

"My friends, my loyal friends! This land which you inhabit is overrun with the vermin of the vampire, the abomination to God that they are! The menace must be eradicated! I, or rather the Lord, beseech you as Christ's heralds to align all people of whatever rank, foot soldiers and knights, poor and rich, to exterminate that vile race from our lands. I say this to those who are present - it is meant also for those who are absent. Christ commands it!"

The proud pontiff smiled at the cheering crowd of men in front of him. How long ago it seemed he was nothing more than a simple monk. He glanced over his left shoulder. Behind him, wearing a suit of magnificent silver armor and a green cloak, was his closest friend and ally, the Grand Marquis of Hell, Andras. It was Andras's master plan which had afforded him the luxury of being coronated Pope, the absolute privilege of calling himself Pope Urban IX, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church and Vicar of Jesus Christ

From here he could hear the people whooping and hollering in joy, and even strains of their united anthem to their leader, sung out in cadence to Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. Turning back to accept the offering of their beautiful voices, he missed the light of mockery in his close friend's eyes

"_Papa Urban, we adore thee, long over us may you reign, in our hearts and in our minds, is where your spirit will remain, always guide us, never to flight us, for you alone will lead us all, Papa Urban we adore thee, over us for all to reign!"_

"Splendid work, Your Holiness," His demon whispered, cooing in his ear.

"Thank you, My Lord Marquis," The man formerly known as Ian Desmond answered. "We have half the world steeped war, and the other half, including Albion, shall soon follow!"

The cheering and whooping of the Pope's soldiers was interrupted by a resounding, harmonic chorus. The voices were high pitched, beautiful yet forceful and angry.

"Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in praelio." The unison, in Latin, overpowered the soldiers, silencing them. "Contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium. Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur. Tuque princeps militiae caelestis, Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo divina virtute in infernum detrude."

The Pope and his demon turned quickly, causing their robes to flutter in the sudden movement. Above the very dome of the Vatican hovered a massive fleet of warships from both the Empire and Albion, and heading them up was the Iron Maiden herself. The Pope grimaced; his intelligence had told him that there were no attacks planned in the near future.

A descending form, a large man in black sporting silver hair and black wings, came upon them quickly. In his hand, he brandished a vial of holy water; droplets of it peppered both Desmond and Andras. The Crusnik Abel Nightroad shouted in a loud voice, his words barely audible over the roar of the singing from the allied warships.

"Brother Desmond! Can you hear me? Are you all right?"

The continued barrage of holy water on his face made Desmond awake from his slumber suddenly. A stinging pain from the sacred liquid caused him to squirm in anguish, and the monk glared at his opponents.

_There they are. The Crusnik, the girl, the robot, the blonde, and the old man. _He stopped momentarily shocked. _And the Pope's here, too. What a revolting scene…_

"Brother Desmond?" Father Pommodori took over as he saw that the monk was coming to. "Brother Desmond? Do you consent to this exorcism?"

"I...I…" Desmond couldn't force the words to escape his lips. Something, some innate feeling was holding him back from saying anything at all. He felt the pressure of Andras's presence welling up inside of him, "...I can't."

"Please, Brother, please try." Esther pleaded, her hands folded in steadfast prayer.

"**What should he try, girl?" **The demon's voice was obvious, and a wicked sneer appeared on Desmond's face. **"Maybe you should all try leaving me alone! Old man, blonde one - I know you. I know of both of you and all your fears. Nothing you can do will drive me from this body! I am here forever, I am one with this man, and so mote it be!"**

As he spoke, Andras lunged Desmond's arms forward, trying to break the blessed chains keeping him restrained to the wall. Tres took notice and approached the possessed man; the android had equipped himself with vestments and gloves specially anointed with sacred chrism, as to protect himself from further demonic attacks. He grabbed Desmond by the shoulders and held him still with superhuman strength.

"**Unhand me, you inorganic garbage pile!" **

Hugue stepped forward. "Unholy spirit of evil, in the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to allow Desmond to speak to us!"

"**Oh, shut up!" **Andras spat, **"Do you have any idea the trouble I had to go through to get this far? I'm not backing down to a failed exorcist like yourself, you nimble headed twit! Don't you see? I am the spirit of Desmond, and we are one and the same!"**

"You are not Desmond." Pommodori finally spoke again. "You are not Brother Desmond. You are Andras, an agent of Satan and a deplorable presence to the entire world. You will tell us now your time of departure from this servant of God."

"**That's easy enough, old man. Never."**

Pommodori gritted his teeth, his overall demeanor putting the others at a noticeable discomfort. "Andras! You are a liar and follower of the Prince of Lies, the Lord of Deception! Christ saw your lord Satan fall from Heaven like lightning, and so you shall leave Desmond. You shall begone."

The Marquis could only laugh. **"Silly old man, did you not learn anything from our last encounter? I am all powerful, all knowing and I am the victor in this battle. You've never been a threat to me and you never will be, not even with your worthless God on your side. Choke on that, grandpa!"**

As soon as the demon had said those words, Pommodori felt the familiar ache in his throat. He broke into a severe fit of a dry hacking cough. The hacking became more and more intense, each one inhibiting his ability to catch his breath. In pain, Pommodori bent his torso over his knees, but nothing he tried to quell the cough. Soon his throat was seizing on him, and he felt a warm, unstable liquid violently lurch from his mouth.

Trickles of blood began to form in his mouth, and ran down the sides. The exorcist tried to hold himself together, straining with every fiber of his being. but he had no luck. This Prince of Hell was more powerful than Pommodori had anticipated, and he braced himself against a wall, slowly lowering down to a seated position.

Esther rushed to the old exorcist's side. "Father Pommodori," She cried, ignoring the blood splattering onto her surplice, "we need to get you out here."

"No, I must...stay…" The old guard spirit present in the priest's soul was not going to allow him to give up so easily. "Father Hugue...please...open the Ritual and take the lead…"

The blonde priest nodded in silent affirmation, and opened up his red, leather bound book to the rite of exorcism. He raised in his right hand, made the Sign of the Cross over Desmond's form and began to recite the opening prayers.

"Holy Lord, almighty Father, everlasting God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who once and for all consigned that fallen and apostate tyrant to the flames of hell, who sent your only-begotten Son into the world to crush that roaring lion; hasten to our call for help and snatch from ruination and from the clutches of the noonday devil-"

Hugue was interrupted by a small, innocent voice which seemed misplaced in this oppressed, distastefully fragrant room.

"-this human being made in your image and likeness. Strike terror, Lord, into the beast now laying waste to your vineyard. Fill your servants with courage to fight manfully against that reprobate dragon, lest he despise those who put their trust in you, and say with Pharaoh of old: "I know not God, nor will I set Israel free." Let your mighty hand cast him out of your servant, Ian Desmond, so he may no longer hold captive this person whom it pleased you to make in your image, and to redeem through your Son; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God, forever and ever." The Pope finished, reading intently from his Ritual.

"Amen." The rest chimed in, after a startled pause.

"**That is too rich, child," **Andras roared with laughter, **"Little weak Pope, come to take down the big bad demon? Don't toy with me, boy, I pushed you to the brink of death and I can do it again." **The demon's eyes transformed to a deep, crimson shade. **"You will feel my hands on your throat again, worm."**

The Pope tried his hardest to resist the urge to cower, but ultimately gave into his instincts and ducked for cover behind Hugue. Abel and Esther stood over the fallen Pommodori, and Tres kept his hands and eyes locked on Desmond and Andras.

"Incorrect assumption, Andras. No harm shall be brought upon His Holiness, by order of Her Eminence, Caterina Sforza."

"**You're such a smart toy, aren't you!" **

"Enough!" Hugue cried out, sick of the distractions. "I command you, Andras, along with all your minions attacking this servant of God, by the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection and ascension of our Lord Jesus, by the descent of the Holy Spirit-"

"**Stop! You stop saying those names right now!" **Andras yelled. **"Those vile, disgusting falsehoods! Mythical and fictitious characters. They are not real and have no power over me or anyone. I am the First, and I belong to the true Kingdom of the Underworld! They are nothing but lies."**

Abel's attention was drawn in by Andras's declaration. _He's never been repulsed by the mention of the Lord's name before..what is so different this time? _The priest shook his head and knelt down beside Esther, leaning over the bleeding Pommodori.

"Father, please, you need to be less stubborn," Abel began, "you shouldn't be here in this condition. Let us take you to the infirmary."

The old priest coughed, a few splatters landing on Abel's neck and collar. "No, Abel," Pommodori stated, "it would be wrong for me to leave now. Tell Father Hugue that Desmond needs to consent, Brother Desmond must agree to drive Andras out. That is the only way we can be successful here."

"I will." Abel arose and approached Hugue. "Get Desmond to agree, Hugue. Pommodori says it's the only thing that will work!"

Hugue glared at the silver haired priest, and turned back to Desmond. "Most unclean spirit, Grand Marquis of Hell, Andras, I command you in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, who hath shed His blood to free all men from the torment of your master, to permit Desmond to speak with us once more."

"**I refuse to let him speak to the likes of swine like you! He has already chosen where his heart lies and there is no going back now. We are going to rule the Church and neither you nor your pitiful faith will be of any consequence."**

"Andras!" Hugue removed his purple stole, neared Desmond and wrapped it around the possessed man's neck. Tres released his grip on Andras and took several steps back, allowing Hugue room. "Andras, with the intercession of this holy garment and the will of the Holy Spirit that Desmond be freed, I command you to allow him to speak!"

The purple stole, the very first one Hugue received after his ordination, began to feel damp. An odorous stench wafted its way to his nostrils, one that reeked of bile and sulfur. Looking down, the blonde priest saw that his beloved stole was covered in a thick, yellow brown vomit. The repulsive, viscous fluid squished in between his fingers, and Hugue's legendary temper began to flare up.

"**Did that scrap of cloth mean something to you? My bad!" **

Hugue reached back and grabbed his staff. "What did you say, slime?" He questioned through clenched teeth.

"**You couldn't exorcise Sabnock in Stockholm and you won't succeed here, either. You are a worthless priest; murdering without reason. You are discredit to this entire procedure. Are you sure you're on the right side?"**

Hugue's steely gaze did not leave Andras's crimson eyes. He withdrew his blade slowly and silently, and placed it down near his side.

"If you will not allow Desmond to speak through prayer, then I will make him speak through force!" Hugue raised his blade and made a swipe at Desmond and Andras, ready to decapitate them if necessary.

Instead, the blade stopped half of an inch before Desmond's neck. A wide sneer appeared on the possessed man's face. Hugue felt as though he could no longer control his blade, and suddenly, the blade, still in his hands, has caused a foot long gash down the center of his own chest. The blonde priest stared at his wound, the blood oozing from it at an accelerated pace.

"**Poetic, don't you think? It's from your own book; 'He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword.'"**

Father Hugue collapsed to the floor, leaving Abel, Tres, Esther and the Pope the only uninjured company standing. Tres tore off part of his own cassock and wrapped Hugue's wound tightly, momentarily slowing the flow of blood. The android priest picked Hugue up and placed him in the corner of the room, next to Pommodori.

"**I'll make you a deal, how about you all leave now and we'll forget this ever happened." **Andras taunted Tres.

"Disciplinary mode, level one." Tres spun on his heel and punched the demon in the face. "Your actions warranted such a reprimand. You shall no longer physically injure any more AX members or clergy. You will be taken into-"

"**I think not. You are nothing more than a man made bucket of bolts. Why don't we find out what makes you tick?" **

Much like Andras's declaration against Pommodori, a change began to take place in Tres. His lips moved frantically, but no sound emerged. Tres's head began to spin in a complete circle, all the way around. His limbs twitched and shuddered, and his body became stiff and rigid. The robot's head began to spin faster and faster, until it released itself completely from the body. Tres, head and body separate, crashed to floor in a ringing, metallic sound.

"**Then, there were three." **

"Father Nightroad, what are we going to do?" Esther whispered to Abel.

"We have to keep trying to draw Desmond out. It's the only way that we're ever going to purge Andras and send him back to Hell."

"Father!" The young Pope was suddenly at Abel's side. "Please, help me. I can start the exorcism prayers again and you can assist me. Please?"

"Eh, yes, that seems like the best course of action." Abel agreed, and stood facing the chained demon with the Pope at his side. They opened their Rituals and Alessandro began to read.

"Lord, hear my prayer." He began.

"**Lord, hear me swear…"Andras mocked.**

"And let my cry reach you." Abel answered.

"**Let my lie impeach you." Again he made fun of them.**

"May the Lord be with you."

"**May the Lord see through you."**

"Andras, the most holy Savior and Redeemer of All Mankind, Jesus Christ, is your total and sworn enemy. It is in His name, with the promise of His eternal salvation, that I command you to cease this garbage!" Esther interjected herself into the ceremony, and regretted her words once she spoke them.

"**Ah, young lady, your voice fails those words. Do you know my favorite part of the Bible, Sister Esther? When the serpent tempts Eve to eat the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. Come, Esther, and taste my forbidden fruit. You would serve me well in my Kingdom."**

"I would never!" Esther exclaimed.

"She would never!" Abel echoed.

"**You have already done things in your life unbecoming of a nun. Don't you remember Dietrich? Something about the mysterious boy who smoked clove cigarettes and hung around you like a devoted lap dog intrigued you. Why, you even partook in a smoke with him, and then when you were alone..." **The Prince of Hell trailed off, leaving Esther with uncomfortable memories flooding back into her head.

"No, please don't. I don't...I'm not proud of that…" Esther managed to squeak out, unconvincingly.

"Leave her be, Andras!" Abel spoke forcefully, determined to defend the young nun's honor.

"**Do not deny it, Esther. You let that boy kiss you, and you let him touch you as well; but you can't possibly tell me you didn't like it. It's unhealthy to be deprived of such pleasures." **Andras was quiet for a moment, letting his seductive smile do the work in her mind.

"No, please, it was mistake. It was an accident…" Tears began to form in Esther's eyes. "I didn't mean to let him, he was just so...so...and it felt...right, kind of…I'm sorry, I really am sorry…"

**"So, you did like it after all."**

"Enough!" Abel yelled. But it was not Abel speaking. The Crusnik had reappeared, wanting control and desiring revenge against the Grand Marquis. The Crusnik's anger grew with Abel's and was climbing steadily. "We will not tolerate this any longer. You will not attack her in such a fashion, and you have done enough damage to warrant us interceding in this manner. Nanomachines, level 80, activate!"

Black wings sprouted from Abel's back, and he grew larger and more freakish looking in appearance. His eye glowed red, and his silver hair stood on end, raised in a crown-like fashion. His teeth had grown considerably, and his hands became talon-like weapons capable of incredible destruction. His cassock and surplice were ripped beyond repair as the great black wings tore through his back, and a blood red scythe appeared in his hands.

"DEMON!" The Crusnik spoke. "You have committed unforgivable offenses. You claim to be a Prince of Hell, a Grand Marquis? You will now know the full meaning of the words suffering and punishment as only we can deliver them. You will pray for Hell when we are through with you, Andras."

"**And I will bring you back with me, Crusnik."**

Abel raised his scythe and slashed through the chains restraining Desmond. The possessed man stepped forward and reached down his own throat. He clenched something firmly, and withdrew it slowly. A long, silver blade emerged from the bowels of Desmond's gullet, and Andras wielded it proudly, as though cradling a newborn infant.

"**I would like you to meet what we in Hell call 'Inferi' - that means hellfire in Latin. Its dark blade absorbs power directly from the blood it draws, leaving a wound burning as hot as molten rock. You, too, will fall to its incredible power."**

"We need not to worry about your silly claims, demon. You are still the same scum we always encounter, and you will fall even faster." He raised his scythe again, and went to bring it down on Desmond's head. Andras countered with Inferi, successfully keeping the scythe at bay.

"**You are very determined even as you face failure. I like that." **Andras swung Inferi at Abel's legs, and then took a swipe at the priest's head. Abel jumped and ducked effectively, and backed up, his scythe used to deflect Andras's attacks.

Abel attacked Andras this time, the scythe finally hitting its mark. The point struck Desmond in the right shoulder, causing Andras to drop his cherished sword. In turn, Abel dropped his scythe, and locked eyes with the demon standing in front of him. The stares were intense; a violent, bloody hatred radiated between the two enemies and sparks of electricity and pure, ethereal energy spun around them, hissing and igniting at random intervals.

Esther grabbed the Pope and pulled him back, and they both crouched down next to Pommodori, who had ceased his bloody cough. Her face was owned by concern, as Alessandro quickly noticed. The Pope turned to the experienced exorcist.

"What shall we do, Father? Surely, Father Nightroad fighting that demon is a terrible idea."

Pommodori sighed. It was the long, heavy sigh of an old man, one who had seen his time come and go, and who was almost ready to admit defeat. He sat and watched Abel transform into the Crusnik; he had known his student was the indestructible monster of the Vatican. When you are the resident exorcist of the Vatican, the reports of a 'strange demon' being in the same vicinity as Father Nightroad became far too commonplace to be coincidence. "We wait, Your Holiness. I feel as though Andras will take this opportunity to show his true self."

"But what about Father Nightroad?" Esther asked, almost frantic.

"He and the Crusnik will need to calm down if anything is going to be accomplished. But the majority of this fight is still up to Brother Desmond. We have yet to hear anything from him since the exorcism began." Even though he was no longer spewing blood, Pommodori still retained a small, sharp cough.

Abel and Andras, still caught in their intense stare, had locked hands, and were now braced, knuckles white with aggression, and they braced their chests against each other, both trying to gain the upper hand. Andras was holding his own, and the Crusnik, having adapted itself to Andras's incredible level of strength, matched and almost began to take the advantage on the Grand Marquis.

Andras felt his grasp starting to slip, and his back was slowly being pushed against the wall. Even though Andras was one of the seven Princes of Hell and almost as powerful as Lord Satan, he was being shoved back by this indestructible weapon of order and violence. The Crusnik was far more powerful than the weak, mortal form of Brother Ian Desmond. No matter how much Andras had accomplished using Desmond as a surrogate, the monk would never physically be as capable of handling Andras's full ethereal power as the Crusnik could.

The Grand Marquis was faced with an interesting, if risky, decision. He had managed to come this far using Brother Desmond; perhaps going the extra distance required the services of a new host. His characteristic wide sneer appeared again, and a glowing golden aura surrounded Brother Desmond, radiating off his form and becoming a golden orb, hovering in between the locked bodies of Desmond and Abel.

"**You will be mine." **

Desmond felt an intense separation as Andras left his body. _What is going on? Where is he going? What is he doing to me? _The pain increased ten fold, and Desmond suddenly was able to feel Abel's incredible strength bending, almost breaking every bone in both of his arms. _Andras is trying to leave me? Why would Andras leave me? We had a deal, we had a contract….why is he...no! NO! He wants to go, fine. He can go, but not on his own terms!_

"Father! Father Pommodori!" The weak, scratchy voice of Ian Desmond rang through the same cell.

"Yes, my son…" Pommodori answered, knowing this was truly the voice of Brother Ian Desmond.

"I consent! I agree! Get this bastard out of me!" Desmond chanted, rhyming his words unintentionally. The golden orb that centered itself between the two bodies retreated back into Desmond's form, and the crimson hue returned to the eyes of possessed man.

"**Impudent mortal! When will you ever make up your mind? We are going to rule the world with an iron fist. You cannot reject me, I own you and I am you." **Andras fired at the insolent monk.

Abel had released Desmond from the knuckle lock as soon as he consented to allow the exorcism. The Crusnik, however, was still angry and sought nothing more than the blood of Desmond on his hands and the smell of a fresh kill lingering in the air.

Esther, seeing that the Crusnik was not about to relent, jumped on Abel's back, carefully avoiding colliding with the large, black wings. She wrapped her arms around his neck and hung on for dear life. She could not allow her close friend to kill Desmond before the exorcism was complete; Sister Esther had to relax the Crusnik and find a way to put Abel back in control.

"Please, Father. Stop this. Come back to us and let the Crusnik rest. It's time for the real work to be done, time to send Andras back to Hell. Come back to me, Father, I'd really like to see you again. Let the Crusnik rest, please, Abel?"

The Crusnik priest cringed. Esther had never addressed by his first name before. It was always "Father" or "the Father" or "Father Nightroad". Never Abel, even if everyone else in the room was addressing him casually, she always retained her formalities. But to hear his name tumble from her lips, to hear her announce him, was enough to shake him to his very core. It sounded to Abel as though a million angels had played a million trumpets and joined a chorus when Esther said his name. It was enough to bring the priest back in control and deactivate his nano-machines , returning to his normal human form, albeit with a ripped cassock.

"Go, Your Holiness," Pommodori prompted the young pontiff with a slight push to his leg. "Lay your stole of Saint Sebastian on Desmond, and free him of the influence of Andras, once and for all."

Alessandro, possessing a renewed sense of self confidence, approached the crouched Brother Desmond. He made the Sign of the Cross on both himself and the monk, and placed the tip of the stole on Desmond's neck, and his right hand on Desmond's head.

"Behold the Cross of the Lord. Depart, enemies!" He intoned, with great conviction and faith.

"Jesus, with ancient strength, with noble power, is the conqueror." Responded Pommodori, who had secured for himself the appropriate page in the Ritual.

"Lord, hear my prayer."

"**Do. Not. Do. This." **Andras's voice was no longer confident or mocking. It was the scared, frightened voice of a reprimanded child, awaiting punishment from his father. Satan would not be pleased.

"May the Lord be with you."Alessandro continued.

"And with your spirit." Abel and Pommodori replied in unison, the former joining Pommodori at his seat on the floor of the cell.

"Let us pray: God, Father of Our Lord Jesus Christ, I invoke your Holy Name and the Holiness of Servant, Saint Sebastian, and suppliantly request you: deign to give me strength against this and every other unclean spirit which is tormenting this creature of yours. With the intercession of Saint Sebastian and the glory of Our Savior, Jesus Christ, I exorcise you, Most Unclean Spirit! Invading Enemy! In the name of Our Lord Jesus and Christ, be uprooted and expelled from this Creature of God. He who commands you is he who ordered you to be thrown down from the highest Heaven into the depths of Hell.

"**You cannot defeat me! I am Andras, Prince of Hell, Grand Marquis, sword master of Inferi, guardian of..." **The demon trailed off as Alessandro wrapped the stole around Desmond's neck, increasing its influence.

"You who have corrupted, who have twisted, will have eternal punishment for your failure. Go away, seducer. The desert is your home, the serpent is your dwelling. Be humiliated and cast down. Behold the victorious Lord is here. He has prepared Hell for you and the fallen ones. Begone, the power of Christ commands you! Leave, the intercession of Saint Sebastian commands you! You are expelled, Andras, Grand Marquis of Hell! You are extinguished, your flame on this earth has been reduced to embers, and you are cast into the pit from whence you came! The power and might of our Lord Jesus commands you! BEGONE!" The Pope ordered, with a fervor and wisdom beyond his years. With all his might, he pressed the stole of Saint Sebastian onto Desmond's shoulders, praying that this would be enough to rid them of Andras.

"May the power, glory and eternal might of the Lord Jesus prevail over all evil. Deliver us Lord, from every evil, and bring us peace in our day." Pommodori and Abel finished, waiting for Andras' reaction.

"**You...insolent priests...you will all...AHHHHHHH!" **Andras tried his best to deliver a final curse, but it was of no use. His power had usurped and his presence in the mortal realm was fleeting. A brilliant gold aura surrounded Brother Desmond yet again, and a gold orb was forcibly ripped from his being. The orb screamed, with a voice that sounded half like Andras and half like the scream of a tortured child.

The orb drew with inexorable speed towards a hand bathed in light. Scattered throughout the chamber, confused gazes belonging to Abel, Esther and Pommodori drew up the blue-robed arm of a ghostly man. They met knowing eyes in a face framed with long, dark hair and a thick dark beard, a frozen feeling of awe beginning to grow.

"Hello, Saint Sebastian."

"Hello, Your Holiness." Sebastian wrapped the folds of his blue cloak around the glowing, golden orb. The screams of Andras grew muffled as the orb retreated further and further into the deep folds of the cerulean garment. "I will be taking of this so-called Prince of Hell."

"Thank you, Saint Sebastian." Abel piped up.

"I have a message for you, Abel Nightroad," The rough saint spoke again. "She says that she forgives you. You should mourn her no longer."

The Crunsik priest's hand slowly closed. He didn't seem to breathe. Esther drew herself closer to the tall, silver haired priest.

Alessandro stepped back, looking down upon the fallen forms of Ian Desmond, Tres Iquis, Hugue de Watteau and Guiseppe Pommodri. These four men, as well as himself, Father Nightroad, Sister Esther and Father Leon, had all been unwitting victims of the evil presence that was now contained by the saint who had appeared before them.

Unconscious in murky yet comforting darkness, Ian Desmond was inescapably drawn back into light with a strong yet echoing command.

"_Awaken, Desmond._" Sebastian ordered.

The monk groggily awoke to the visage of his Order's founder.

Guilt and fear roiled in his stomach, churning to the time of _his_ demon's screams, and he immediately took a prostrate position.

"Thou are still fit to lead my Order, but do not take thine position lightly. Do not allow anyone to influence decisions; thou are indeed a natural born leader and can restore the former glory of the Order. But listen to thineself, and no one else. Thou will bring the Order to a new golden age, one where all live in harmony with the Church and its clergy. Thou are my hope to the world. Be safe, and God shall guide you."

The visage of Saint Sebastian slowly began to fade from sight, and the screams of Andras intensified.

"Thou shall not fret, dear children of the Lord. I shall return him to his master, to the depths of Hell. I am certain Satan will have a grand reward for his successful son." Sebastian said. He was gone as quickly as he had appeared.

Left behind in a strange stillness, the five clergy and the freed Brother Desmond hung suspended in a state of questioning calm.


	18. Nuovi Amici

_Disclaimer: I do not own Trinity Blood. Here's my favorite quote from Esther about Abel from the manga, ""He's a big glutton! Even though he's poor! He makes a lot of dangerous mistakes! And he's a real pervert! Frankly speaking, he's not a decent person!"_

**Nuovi Amici  
By: James Austin Valiant**

The infirmary beds were full, and Sister Martha had been busy scrambling back and forth between the three major victims of the last round of Brother Desmond's exorcism. The first victim of concern was Pommodori, but after a thorough set of throat cultures and breathing tests, it was revealed that the old priest was in pretty good shape, considering his age. He had lost a good amount of blood in his hacking, and was being replenished by a bag dangling near his bed. He remained awake, reading one of his books.

Hugue was still unconscious. Tres had done well to apply pressure to the gash in the blonde's chest, but Hugue had lost a lot more blood than Pommodori, and was almost on the edge of death when he was brought in. Sister Martha took special care to assist the doctors in sewing up the massive gash, and completely cleaned it and changed bandages at least every hour or so. She sighed, glancing over at the curly locks of the mysterious priest. How she wished he would just wake up, take her by the arm and lead her away to someplace…

She was getting ahead of herself. The last man who needed emergency treatment from the Vatican infirmary was Brother Desmond. The man who had caused the injuries and near deaths of His Holiness and several members of the AX had, in turn, needed the Vatican's own medical services himself. Desmond had been immediately placed on an IV drip for his malnutrition, and several broad spectrum antibiotics were pumped in to fight the infections he had picked up through his open wounds.

Lastly, a CT scan had been ordered to examine his brain more closely. Desmond had a slight abnormal growth in the left temporal lobe, very close to a region neurologists had dubbed 'the prayer center'. The prayer center was the only part of the brain that registered activity while the subject happened to be in deep prayer. Part of the reason Desmond had been so attuned to Andras was because he was able to sense the demon through his understanding of prayer and the supernatural.

Sister Martha leaned over Brother Desmond, and the monk stirred. He had been asleep for about twelve hours since the exorcism itself had finished. Martha felt as though anyone who had been through what this poor man had just been through deserved as much sleep as they could afford. The monk's vital signs were normal, and all indications were that he would make a full recovery.

A loud crash sounded down the hallway from the infirmary, accompanied by yelling and scuffling. The footsteps grew in volume in mere seconds, and the door to the infirmary was flung open.

"Brother Desmond!" The rich accent of Brother Hidalgo thundered through the room, and the Spanish monk rushed to Desmond's side. "I knew they were mistreating you - tell me what they have done!"

At Hidalgo's deafening urging, the bearded man awoke sharply. He blinked at the sight of Hidalgo, and glanced around the room.

"Brother?" Desmond cleared his throat. "Where am I?"

"The Vatican infirmary. You've been-"

"You've been trapped, you've been injured and worst all, you have been deceived!" Hidalgo cut Martha off, accentuating with shorts bursts of repetition. "Look at you, your shoulder has been injured, and you look as sick and weak as a ghost! They have turned you into a helpless dog!"

"Are you sure you're-"

Brother Desmond's objection to Brother Hidalgo's insinuations were interrupted by a familiar, proud voice. Brother Petros stood directly behind the Spanish monk, eyes narrowed and hand firmly on Hidalgo's upper arm. His voice was hard and unforgiving, ready to dish out the necessary reprimand to the trespassing man.

"You were told explicitly to halt, to wait for proper clearance before proceeding! Since you refused to comply, you are hereby under arrest, Brother and I will personally guarantee you will be prosecuted more than the fullest extent of the law allows!"

"That will be enough, Brother Petros." Alessandro had silently sauntered in behind his head of security, having been en route to visit Desmond.

"Your Holiness!" Petros genuflected like lightning. "I apologize in earnest, but I was just handling the situation with this trespasser, and I…"

"We forgive those who trespass against us. Leave this man to me, Brother Petros, he'll be under my personal escort from here." insisted the young pontiff.

"Yes, Your Holiness!" Petros once again genuflected and kissed the Pope's Fisherman's Ring. "You are truly the most wise and inspirational Pope in decades!"

As the Inquisition head left the room, Alessandro turned to the overly zealous Hidalgo. "Pleased to meet you, Brother. I'm Pope Alessandro."

Hidalgo squinted. "Of course you are, Your Holiness. I spoke to Cardinal Sforza on the phone and she refused to let me talk to Brother Desmond. Now, I come here and find him laid up in a hospital bed! What is the meaning of this?"

The Pope stared straight ahead for a moment, wondering how exactly he was going to explain all of this to Brother Hidalgo without revealing that the demonic Grand Marquis of Hell had been possessing Brother Desmond for the past week and a half. Alessandro smiled nervously in frustration.

"It's not anyone's fault but my own, Brother Hidalgo," Desmond piped up. "You know how sometimes I forget to eat when I'm immersed in my prayers and this cut on my shoulder is nothing more than a scratch from when I got a little too adventurous on a tour of the Catacombs. The Pope himself took me personally."

"Oh." Hidalgo mustered. "But then, why wouldn't Cardinal Sforza allow me to talk to you?"

"Brother Desmond and I were in very complicated negotiations, Brother Hidalgo, and we needed complete isolation in order to ensure that everything was carried out completely and carefully." Alessandro answered.

"Huh. What conclusions have you come to?"

"That, with reasonable accommodations and allowances, the Order of Saint Sebastian will be in full communion with Holy Mother Church following a consecration ceremony at the next Papal High Mass. The Order is more than welcome to reassume control of their former chapel in the south of Vatican City, and any member may apply for formation in our seminary." The Pope explained, outlining the terms he and Caterina had laid out together.

Hidalgo shot an angry glare at Desmond. "You accepted these terms? What about our bishops? What about our cardinal? What about our funding and cathedral in Rome? And the fact that this, this child is barely qualified to lead the Church!"

"Dear Brother Hidalgo, those were greedy and selfish terms...in time, when we regain our prominence and acceptance in the Church, those wonderful attributes will return." Desmond stated simply. _Not to mention, _he thought, _that those wants were the demands of Andras, not myself._

"I am not a child." Alessandro announced strongly. "I am the Pope, the Leader of the Universal Church and the Vicar of Jesus Christ. The Order of Saint Sebastian's teaching of _sede vacante _is heresy and will be denounced as such. Both I and my father, Gregorio XXX, were legitimate Popes, as were the Popes before us. The Order has agreed to accept this into their doctrine."

"He is qualified," Desmond agreed, "I have witnessed to it personally."

The monk and the pontiff shared a silent exchange, as not to lead Hidalgo on to how exactly Desmond knew Alessandro was a true Pope.

The increased volume of Hidalgo's ranting had attracted more than one person's attention, and Father Pommodori glanced over at the bed where, up until a few hours ago, one of his more difficult adversaries had rested. The exorcist was intrigued by Desmond's mood; he was internally calm and serene. The bearded exorcee possessed a certain grace that he hadn't beforehand. Pommodori had seen this before: sometimes, a spiritually sensitive individual would attain a state of sanctification, a sense of grace that only those who had tangled with the forces of the evil one were able to achieve.

"How soon will Brother Desmond be ready to go?" Hidalgo turned to Sister Martha, who had gone off to tend to a patient's chart.

"I don't know, maybe tomorrow. You'd have to ask a doctor." She explained, double checking the chart she had for Desmond.

"Tomorrow? Why not today! What sort of second rate infirmary are you running here, Your Holiness?" The Spanish monk, once again upset, turned back to the young Pope, who stood close to Brother Desmond's bedside.

"I just want to let you know," He began, looking at both Desmond and Hidalgo, "that I forgive you and the Order." Alessandro made the Sign of the Cross on Desmond's forehead, and the bearded Albionian turned to his spiritual brother.

"I am not going back to the Order just yet, Brother Hidalgo. With your and the Order's blessing, I would like to stay here and formally enter the seminary." Desmond calmly explained.

"You, you what? This is...well, this is just…" The Spanish monk remembered how he had so carefully convinced and argued with Desmond to stay in the Order, and how determined he had been for the monk's success as leader of the Sebastianians. He was proud of Desmond as only a teacher can be of a student, and knew that, in the long run, the more priests that resided in the Order, the more chances they had at having one elevated as their own bishop.

"That sounds just fine to me, Brother Desmond." Brother Hidalgo's stomach rumbled, and Sister Martha stifled a giggle.

"Are you hungry, Brother? I can show you to the cafeteria if you'd like?" The young nun in pink scrubs offered, and Hidalgo nodded, following her out of the infirmary.

"You've really decided to enter the seminary?" Alessandro asked Desmond.

"Yes," Desmond answered. "When I was asleep, I had a wonderful conversation with Saint Sebastian. He indicated there are bigger plans for me than to just remain a simple monk. I debated with him, but he would have none of it. I am to be a priest, plain and simple. Oh, Your Holiness it's so wonderful…"

Pommodori got up from his bed and edged closer to the conversation.

"...to finally be free of the Gra-" Desmond stopped, about to refer to the demon with his proper regnal title. "To be free of Andras. Every decision I make, every word that I utter...I no longer wonder if it's from his will or my own. From here on, every little decision and action is my own. This is just the most wonderful and sacred feeling."

"That's good, I suppose," Being confronted with this large amount of personal information made the Pope uncomfortable, and he needed to say what he had to say before he began a retreat into timidness.

"...I wanted to say, Brother, that I forgive you…" Alessandro stammered, wondering how best to phrase his thoughts, "...I forgive you for being a part of that attack on me."

Tears begin to sting at Desmond's eyes.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry I let him get so close to you...it's my fault…"

"No, it's not," Pommodori felt this was more than an opportune time to make his way into the conversation. "Desmond, many honorable people have done and said unspeakable things while under the influence of demons. There are moderate cases of demonic oppression, where the demon is influencing from afar, but in your case, it was almost a perfect possession. Had you consented to Andras, there would have been no separation, not even in death."

Desmond nodded, understanding if only slightly.

"What is interesting to consider is that there is always a point of...introduction to the evil that surrounds us," Pommodori spoke, and Alessandro and Desmond listened intently. "Once there is an introduction, a small voice or an influence that's felt but not always identified. As time goes by, that presence begins to gain prominence and then, as you know, control. Do you remember anything about the first time you spoke to Andras?"

"I do. I used to sit alone in my cell, just meditating. Not on prayers or Scripture, just in general," Desmond recalled. "I used to just imagine nothingness around me, and every once in a while, a voice would reach out to me from the void. I thought nothing of it, until the angel told me to explore it further."

"The angel?" asked Alessandro.

"Oh, yes, the angel," The monk's voice warmed immensely. "He only appeared to me once...he was quite beautiful. He had long, flowing blonde hair, and six white wings, with golden armor and a sort of odd smile on his face for an angel. He told me to accept the voice in my head, that it was the will of God. You know, it's awfully funny, because this angel looked so much like Father Nightroad…"

"Hmm, well, you're very lucky to be alive after all that," Pommodori said simply, "I'm grateful to the Lord you survived."

"I wish I could remember exactly how it all happened, but so much of my memory is gone. Andras must have taken it as a parting gift."

"I wanted to ask you something, Ian."

Desmond shot a odd glare at the old priest who had so casually used his first name, despite the fact that they had barely just met.

"If you're going to enter the seminary, why don't you come stay with me at my apartment? I would be more than happy to have the company, and I used to teach seminary, so I'd be happy to offer any tutoring I can." He smiled warmly.

"Well, that sounds like a hell of a deal, Father," He laughed nervously, "if you'll pardon the irony in that."

"Truth of the matter is, Brother Desmond," Pommodori's gaze narrowed as he glanced back between the Pope and his newfound roommate, "there aren't too many of us around who have direct experiences with demons like we have. I think it is time I passed on what I know to an up-and-coming priest who might have some experience in the matter."

Desmond bowed his head graciously. "I look forward to learning from you, Father Pommodori."

Father Guiseppe Pommodori smiled again, and reached for a tin he been hiding in his pocket. _Now might be a good time for a little bit of Spanish tuna…_

_

* * *

_

Abel Nightroad had been staring at the mural on this wall for quite some time. The Catholic churches in the area of Rome and most of Italy were renowned for their murals and frescos of different Biblical scenes and holy images. Over the years, the paint chipped away and the works themselves would become faded, neglected. There was move in some of the faithful to find the necessary money to restore these works, but as long as the Vatican had to keep itself armed, there was a slim chance those plans would completely follow through.

The scene in front of him was large one, of the people of Carthago being rescued from invading armies by two heroic, female saints. Abel traced the lines on their faces with left hands, while pounding the armies with his right. He hit them harder and harder, until his knuckles felt like they might shatter. But Abel had the right to reprimand them; they, at one time, were his armies, his warriors looting and plundering and ravaging. Back when he had been young and stupid, ready for war and extinguishing all life on earth.

"You can forgive me?" Abel spoke to the image of Lilith. It was easier to talk to this mural than it was to see her lying in the catacombs. The mural didn't bring him as heavy a sense of guilt as the body of his much loved Lilith.

"You can forgive me." Abel spoke again, as though the words weren't real. "I don't think I have earned your forgiveness, Lilith, and I don't think I'll ever be worth it. Despite what Seth might try to tell me...I'll never do half the good you did for these people. I'm happy you can forgive me, but I can never forgive myself."

"Who are you talking to, Abel?"

Abel froze. She was behind him, using his name again. That sweet, wonderful name he swore he'd never heard before she said it.

"Ah, my stomach, Miss Esther," He turned around, a goofy look on his face. "There's nothing like hand-to-hand combat with a Prince of Hell to really raise the old appetite."

"Fatherrr," Esther drew out her Rs, in a mock annoyed tone. She locked eyes with him, and was impressed by once again being able to see the same kindness and compassion she'd seen all those years ago in Istavan. Esther remembered the saint's words from earlier...some woman from Abel's past had forgiven him. _But who could it be? Was it Lilith, the same woman Desmond spoke as? Who is she?_

"Come now, Esther, I bet if we take a walk to the fountain, we can hit the gelateria, hm? Oh, and it's the most marvelous thing, I found a twenty dinar note I had completely forgot about, so the gelato is on me and I-"

"Abel?"

He absentmindedly pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. "Yes?"

"I just want- I just wanted to say that I am really happy-" Her words were coming out haltingly, "I'm really happy you're okay. I was worried that Andras would- that he would-"

Before the priest could fully understand what was happening, the red haired nun had wrapped her arms around him tightly, pulling her head close to his chest. Father Nightroad could feel Esther's heartbeat on his stomach, and returned the hug by slowly wrapping his arms around her. He bent over slightly and planted a soft kiss on the top of her head, right before her wimple.

"I'm glad you're okay too, Esther," He squeezed her as tight as he felt he could without hurting her. "I'm really very glad you're okay. Sometimes it takes an ordeal like that to realize how much you care about someone, and I think I should-"

Esther drew back a bit, throwing Abel off slightly. "You think you should...what?"

"I think I should tell you that when it comes to you and I, I just-"

A pattering of footsteps on the pavement caused Esther and Abel to break their embrace, and they spied a blue wimple about fifteen yards in front of them. The nun, whoever she was, was running at a pace that most sprinters would envy, and as she got closer, Esther recognized her as one of Cardinal Sforza's aides, and she and Abel began moving quickly to meet the girl.

"Father...Nightroad….Sister...Esther…." The novice spoke, clearly out of breath. She bent over, trying to get her wind back. "I'm...sorry...I just can't...catch my…"

"Cat? Dog? Train?" Father Nightroad guessed.

"Abel!" Esther smacked him lightly. "Sorry about him, Sister Emily, he thinks it's funny to make jokes at odd times. What's going on? Are you okay? Is everything all right?"

Sister Emily shook her head emphatically "No."

"What's wrong, then?" Abel asked.

"It's...the Professor." Emily finally blurted out. "He's been...kidnapped."

**FIN**

_**Final Author's Notes: You know, I don't really know if I need to do author's notes, but here goes anyways. First of all, I'd like to thank myself, because without me, none of this awesome great junk would've been added to this tremendous pile of unlicensed use of other people's creations we call fanfiction. Secondly, I'd like to thank the muse that bit me on this one. I must've been inspired on my trip to Martha's Vineyard this past July, because that's where I first tried (and failed) to make sketches of Father Pommodori.**_

_**So yeah. I'd like to thank the following sources for help and inspiration: the Trinity Blood anime and manga, and of course Kiyo Kujo and Sunao Yoshida. There's some fun characters to play around with here, and read some of my others fics (especially Ah! Ah! Ah!) to see the liberties I've tended to take with them. Fathers Malachi Martin and Gabriele Amorth have written extensive, wonderful books on exorcism that I highly recommend for anyone looking to do some reading on the subject. I'd also like to thank this picture on my wall of that famous scene from The Exorcist, where Father Merrin first arrives to purify Regan. I'm not going to lie; Father Pommodori is heavily based on both Malachi Martin and Lancaster Merrin, so if I've come too close to the source material, I do apologize.**_

_**It's necessary to use the old cliche that behind every good man is a good woman, and behind this one is two. First of all is my dearest Martha, whose wonderful knowledge of the kind of anime I'd watch got me drawn into this Trinity Blood world in the first place, as was her insistence that I sit down and watch every single episode of the anime, which in turn got me hooked on every single book of the manga. She helped me research and come up with using the demon Andras, who is listed in the Ars Goetia as a legitimate demonic presence. Secondly, I'd like to thank someone who, in a few short months, has become a wonderful resource and a newfound friend. Ms. Emily, you are both a joy and pleasure to work with and I shall hope we collaborate on many more projects in the future. Not only did she beta and fix my writing to make it that much more awesome, but she also produced two FANTASTIC pieces of TB:HE artwork that pretty much wowed me into a marriage proposal...that now Martha's going to know about and I have to explain. Ah, well, so is life. You'll notice that Sister Martha and Sister Emily are both named after them - just a little tribute to my girl and my good friend.**_

_**There is a lot of planning that went into different aspects of Habeas Everto. For example, the overall title of the series translates into Latin as "We Have A Demon." Pretty neat, huh? Not only that, but Father Giuseppe Pommodori is named after not only my father, who passed in spring 2009, but also, technically, tomatoes. Yes indeed, pomodori is the Italian plural for tomatoes, while the singular is pomodoro. I added another M in Pommodori's name just to differentiate a bit.**_

_**Brother Ian Desmond, if you'll notice, has an interesting twist to his name. Change the N in Ian to M and drop the S and the last D from Desmond, and you get I Am Demon. Pretty tricky, huh? All things done on purpose, I assure you. The victim of Pommodori and Hugue's failed exorcism in Stockholm, Olof Palme, is named after a legitimate historical figure who was the prime minister of Sweden in the sixties and seventies.**_

_**The chapter titles, as you've probably noticed, are either in Italian or Latin, and I think it's about time I decode them for you, seeing as how my college level knowledge of Italian is what helped me name these damn things in the first place. Chapter one is Clutch of the Citrus, two is Devotion and Deliverance, three is Innocence Lost, four is Infernal Affairs, five is Nasty Welcome, six is Eccentric Encounter, seven is Vatican Requests, eight is Weak Pope, nine is State of Arrest, ten is The Interrogation of the Professor, eleven is Who Art In Heaven, twelve is The Demon's Exercise (play on words :D), thirteen is Strawberries Are Not Temptation, fourteen is Mystery Priest, fifteen is Safe Awakening, sixteen is Crepes of Wrath, seventeen is Intercession of the Saint and this one is New Friends.**_

_**Well, that's that folks. Stick around, because that cliffhanger I just left you at? There's a sequel coming, and you best bet if there's not something up here in two weeks time, Ms. Emily will have old JAV's head on a platter, feeding it to a hungry dingo. Take care all, thanks for reading, and read on!**_

_**- James Austin Valiant, January 11, 2011 at 3:34 AM**_


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